If*  I 


B44D 


X 


IN  ANOTHER  MOMENT 


_ 
0NIV.  OT  t£UF.  MRKAKY.  TJOS  JSSH* 


She  stopped,  her  head  lowered  and  her  cheeks  on  fire. 


By 
CHARLES  BELMONT  DAVIS 

Author  of 
The  Stage  Door,  The  Lodger  Overhead,  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

WALLACE   MORGAN 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1913 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS    OF 

BRAUNWORTH    &    CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.   Y. 


TO 

P.  A.  T. 


IN  ANOTHER  MOMENT 


IN  ANOTHER  MOMENT 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  Holt  House  looked,  for  all  the  world, 
like  a  toy  Noah's  Ark,  resting  calmly  on  the 
flat  bosom  of  a  green  paper  ocean.  The  clapboard 
walls  of  the  old  farmhouse  glistened  proudly  in 
their  fresh  coat  of  white  paint,  and  the  close-cropped 
dewy  lawn  and  the  flowering  orchard  shone  and 
sparkled  in  the  morning  sun.  Both  on  the  links  and 
at  the  tiny  club-house,  a  hundred  yards  up  the  course, 
there  was  a  distinct  air  of  activity  and  excitement. 
Indeed,  the  day  was  one  of  considerable  import,  both 
to  the  caddies  and  to  the  young  men  and  old  men  in 
flannels,  who  were  gathered  about  the  club-house 
porch  or  scattered  over  the  short  nine-hole  course, 
trying  a  few  preliminary  strokes  before  the  really 
serious  work  of  the  day  began. 

On   the   evening   previous    the   little    hotel   had 

i 


2  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

opened  for  the  season,  and  to-day  the  local  golf 
club  had  unlocked  the  door  of  its  club-house  and 
invited  the  members  to  begin  their  tournament  for 
the  silver  cup  offered  annually  by  the  club's  presi- 
dent. Incidentally,  it  also  happened  to  be  Decora- 
tion Day,  but  there  were  few  heroes'  graves  to  deco- 
rate in  Pleasantville  and  so  the  fact  had  but  little 
significance  and  was  wholly  forgotten  long  before 
the  luncheon  hour. 

On  account  of  the  general  commotion  on  the  links, 
the  porches  of  the  hotel  were,  with  the  exception  of 
a  solitary  figure,  quite  deserted.  The  exception  was 
Max  Lusk,  who  was  paying  his  first  visit  to  the  Holt 
House.  During  the  summer  previous  he  had  spent 
a  week  at  one  of  the  large  caravansaries  on  the  ocean 
front,  half  a  mile  away,  but  during  that  visit  his  at- 
tention had  been  attracted  to  the  primitive  hotel  near 
the  banks  of  the  river.  The  simplicity  of  the  house 
itself,  and  the  quiet  and  natural  beauty  of  its  sur- 
roundings, appealed  to  him  greatly.  It  had  long  been 
Lusk's  custom  to  devote  six  days  of  each  week  to  the 
stock  exchange,  the  Waldorf  cafe,  the  theaters  and 
various  Broadway  restaurants,  but  either  from  an 
innate  love  of  the  open,  or  a  selfish  desire  to  pre- 
serve what  little  there  was  left  of  his  health,  he  in- 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  3 

variably  made  a  complete  change  in  his  routine  on 
the  seventh  day  and  spent  it  as  far  away  as  possible 
from  his  regular  week-day  haunts. 

On  the  morning  in  question  he  was  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  hotel  porch  with  a  golf -bag  between  his 
knees  and  with  much  care  was  examining  his  clubs 
one  by  one.  An  undersized,  freckled,  native  youth, 
whom  he  had  employed  to  act  as  his  caddie,  stood  a 
few  feet  away  eying  his  patron  with  a  genuine 
sporting  interest. 

"Nickel-plated,  ain't  they?"  suggested  the  boy. 

Lusk  nodded.  "Yep,  saves  the  price  of  having 
'em  cleaned  often." 

"Oh!"  said  the  caddie,  and  during  the  silence  that 
ensued,  the  small  boy  in  his  own  way  slowly  reached 
the  conclusion  that,  in  all  probability,  Lusk  belonged 
to  that  class  of  golfers  who  invariably  pay  the  cad- 
die the  official  fee — no  less  and  certainly  no  more. 

A  screen  door  leading  into  the  hotel  was  thrown 
open,  and  a  young  man  came  out  carrying  his  golf- 
bag  with  him.  He  was  in  the  early  twenties,  tall 
and  straight.  The  easy  grace  of  his  swinging  gait 
as  he  came  down  the  porch,  the  bronzed  face  and 
throat,  and  the  heavily  muscled  forearm  told  of 
much  time  spent  in  the  open.  The  young  man 


4  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

glanced  down  at  Lusk  and  nodded  to  him  cheerfully. 
But  as  he  was  about  to  hurry  on  to  the  club-house 
the  broker  stopped  him. 

"Are  you  playing  in  the  tournament?"  he  asked. 

The  young  man  seemed  to  know  instinctively 
what  was  coming  and  hesitated.  "Yes,"  he  said 
slowly ;  "are  you  ?" 

"I  should  think  I  was,"  Lusk  whined.  "They 
made  me  pay  fifteen  dollars,  a  whole  season's  sub- 
scription, to  play  for  their  old  mug.  Claimed  that 
this  tournament  was  only  for  members.  Now  I've 
joined  their  dodgasted  club,  nobody  seems  to  want 
to  go  around  with  me.  Have  you  got  a  partner?" 

The  young  man  inwardly  cursed  himself  for  not 
having  properly  prepared  the  night  before  against 
such  a  calamity  as  this,  but  he  smiled  pleasantly  and 
said  that  he  was  even  then  on  his  way  to  the  club  to 
look  for  some  one  to  play  with. 

"Let's  go  round  together,"  suggested  the  broker. 
"My  name  is  Max  Lusk." 

The  young  man  switched  his  golf-bag  to  his  left 
hand  and  put  out  a  heavy  browned  right  to  the 
broker.  "Glad  to  know  you.  I'm  Porter  Fielding. 
My  cousin  runs  the  hotel  here." 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  5 

Lusk  got  up  and  the  two  men,  followed  by  the 
freckled  caddie,  started  up  the  course  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  club-house.  It  was  half  an  hour  later 
before  they  were  allowed  to  drive  off,  and  then  to 
their  dismay  they  discovered  that  they  had  drawn  a 
position  just  back  of  two  very  old  men  who  had  a 
most  annoying  regard  for  form  and  wasted  many 
minutes  in  practising  strokes  and  in  calculating  im- 
possible puts. 

Lusk  played  fair  golf,  but  it  was  the  crude  game 
of  the  self-taught  business  man  who  plays  for  exer- 
cise rather  than  for  the  love  of  the  sport.  For  the 
first  few  holes  he  watched  the  well-nigh  perfect  form 
of  his  companion  and  became  quickly  and  painfully 
conscious  of  the  fact  that  Fielding  was  easily  beat- 
ing him  a  stroke  a  hole.  They  had  caught  up  with 
the  old  men  and  were  seated  on  a  bench  waiting  for 
them  to  drive  off. 

"It's  an  awful  thing  to  follow  two  old  geezers  like 
these,"  Lusk  whispered,  and  then :  "Where  did  you 
learn  your  golf,  anyhow?  You  play  as  if  your  name 
might  be  Mr.  Par." 

Fielding  smiled  and  swung  his  driver  slowly  be- 
tween his  knees.  "You  see  I  know  this  course  pretty 


6  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

well,  and  then  I've  been  at  it  a  long  time.  I  played 
pretty  steadily  at  college  for  four  years." 

Lusk  nodded.  "You  went  to  college,  eh?  Do 
you  live  here  now  ?" 

"Just  at  present  I  do.  I  taught  school  at  Pleas- 
antville  for  two  winters,  and  then  I  went  to  Jersey 
City  for  a  year,  but  I  got  in  wrong.  I  was  in  the 
offices  of  the  Lehigh  Valley,  but  I  found  out  that 
there  was  nothing  in  that.  I  want  to  get  out  on  the 
line  if  I  can;  there's  more  chance  for  promotion 
there.  I  could  have  the  school  again  this  fall  if  I 
wanted  it,  but  I  don't  think  I  want  it." 

"You  hit  it  when  you  admit  you  got  in  wrong," 
Lusk  said.  "That's  the  only  key  to  business  suc- 
cess. You  know  what  I  mean — money  success,  and 
if  you  have  money  success,  you  can  buy  the  rest.  I 
don't  understand  these  fathers  who  let  a  young  cub, 
just  out  of  college,  follow  out  any  old  career  that  he 
thinks  he  likes.  My  idea  is  never  to  mind  about  how 
small  the  job  or  the  salary  is  at  the  start,  but  get  in 
right.  Break  into  the  game  with  the  big  chances. 
Look  at  the  case  of  my  brother  and  myself.  Our 
father  ran  a  general  store  in  a  one-night  stand  down 
South,  and  we  worked  for  him  from  the  time  we 
were  kids  and  would  be  there  yet  if  we  hadn't  got 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  7 

wise.  We  gave  up  twenty-five  a  week  and  came  to 
New  York  and  took  jobs  cleaning  out  brokers'  of- 
fices at  five  and  less.  And  now, — well,  I  suppose 
you've  heard  of  Lusk  Brothers.  We  have  half  a 
dozen  lads  in  our  office  who  could  buy  out  my  old 
man  and  his  department  store  ten  times  over." 

Lusk^ot  up  from  the  bench.  "We'd  better  drive 
as  soon  as  the  old  one  with  the  whiskers  plays  his 
second.  They're  holding  up  the  whole  field.  What 
do  you — "  He  broke  off  and  stood  staring  wide- 
eyed  at  two  young  women  who  had  just  come  into 
the  open  from  a  narrow  bit  of  woods  that  crossed 
the  course.  Fielding  turned  and  saw  the  girls  stand- 
ing behind  him. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to 
go  round  with  us  for  a  few  holes?" 

The  smaller  and  younger  of  the  two  looked  up  at 
her  companion,  but  the  other  smiled  and  shook  her 
head.  "I  think  not.  It's  too  early  and  too  hot  for  a 
walk — we'll  sit  here  and  watch  you  drive  pff." 

"Sorry,"  said  Fielding,  and  started  to  tee  up  his 
ball.  He  drove  and  then  gave  way  to  Lusk.  Visibly 
affected  by  the  new  arrivals,  the  broker  made  his 
worst  effort  of  the  morning  and  the  ball  rolled  but 
a  few  feet  in  front  of  him.  He  turned  and  found 


8 

the  older  of  the  girls  laughing  aloud  and  rocking 
back  and  forth  on  the  bench  in  a  paroxysm  of  pleas- 
ure. 

"Miss  Clayton,"  said  Fielding,  "this  is  Mr.  Lusk. 
I  think  you  have  confused  him  a  little.  He  really 
plays  a  fine  game  when  there's  no  gallery." 

Still  smiling,  the  girl  walked  over  to  the  blushing 
broker  and  held  out  her  hand.  "Forgive  me,  won't 
you,  Mr.  Lusk  ?"  she  said.  "I  fear  I've  ruined  your 
score.  Indeed,  I'm  awfully  sorry." 

From  sheer  embarrassment  Lusk  held  her  hand 
for  a  moment  and  looked  up  confusedly  at  the  big 
smiling  eyes,  the  splendid  mass  of  wavy  red  hair,  the 
clear  pink  skin,  the  delicate  nose  and  ears,  the  arched 
scarlet  lips  and  the  full  rounded  throat.  To  the 
others  it  was  quite  evident  that  Lusk's  continued 
confusion  was  not  altogether  due  to  the  bad  drive. 

"That's  all  right,  Miss  Clayton,"  he  stammered 
finally,  "It's  all  right.  I'm  only  a  duffer  at  the 
game,  anyhow." 

Further  conversation  was  rendered  impossible  at 
the  moment  by  the  appearance  of  the  next  pair  of 
players  coming  through  the  woods.  Lusk  made  a 
low  bow.  "I  hope  we'll  meet  again,"  he  said. 

The  girl,  still  smiling,  turned  toward  the  bench. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  9 

"Of  course  we'll  meet  again."  And  then  she  threw 
over  her  shoulder,  "Good  luck  to  you,  Mr.  Lusk." 

The  two  men  played  the  hole  in  silence,  and  it  was 
on  their  way  to  the  next  teeing  ground  that  Lusk 
spoke  again. 

"Who  is  the  peach  with  the  red  hair — one  of  the 
boarders?" 

Fielding  shook  his  head.  "No — she's  a  native. 
Both  of  those  girls  live  here." 

Lusk  looked  incredulous.  "Well,  I'll  be  jiggered! 
She's  a  swell-looking  girl  for  a  native.  Now  the 
other  one  sort  of  looks  the  part." 

Fielding  smiled  at  the  broker's  apparent  enthu- 
siasm. 

"What  kind  of  folk,"  asked  Lusk,  "would  a  girl 
like  that  have,  in  a  small  Jersey  town  like  Pleasant- 
ville?" 

Fielding  carefully  teed  his  ball,  swung  his  club 
several  times,  and  then  drove  far  down  the  course. 

"She  hasn't  any  parents,"  he  said. 

"Just  growed,  eh,  like  Topsy  ?"  Lusk  suggested. 

"Not  exactly.  She  was  washed  up  on  the  beach 
from  a  wreck  near  here  at  a  place  they  call  the  Twin 
Dunes.  They  found  her  clinging  to  her  mother's 
breast.  It  was  a  tramp  steamer  from  New  Orleans, 


io  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

carrying  beet-sugar.  None  of  the  crew  was  saved, 
and  the  mother  and  the  baby  were  the  only  passen- 
gers. Old  man  Clayton,  who  adopted  the  kid,  tried 
to  find  something  out  about  the  mother  at  New 
Orleans  but  they  didn't  know  anything  at  the  steam- 
ship office  except  that  the  captain  had  taken  them 
along  as  a  favor.  It  seems  both  the  mother  and 
the  baby  were  sickly  and  had  shipped  for  their 
health.  The  Claytons  advertised  once  or  twice,  but 
nothing  came  out  of  it." 

"How  about  the  mother?"  asked  Lusk.  "Dead, 
eh,  when  she  was  washed  up?" 

"Just  about — that  is,  she  never  gained  conscious- 
ness. I've  heard  she  was  a  real  beauty — had  a  pink 
skin  and  red  hair — just  like  Fay's.  She  was  a  lady, 
too,  so  they  say, — good  clothes,  you  know,  and  that 
sort  of  thing." 

"And  the  girl  has  no  idea  where  she  comes 
from?" 

"Not  the  least.  She  was  only  a  baby.  But  the 
Claytons  have  treated  her  exactly  like  one  of  their 
own  children.  That  was  their  daughter  with  her 
just  now." 

They  were  playing  through  the  fair  green  slowly, 
and  constantly  being  held  up  by  the  two  old  men  in 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  11 

front  of  them.  Fielding  continued  to  play  the  same 
even  game,  but  Lusk's  whole  interest  had  centered 
in  the  history  of  the  Clayton  girl. 

"Well,  how  is  it,"  he  asked,  "that  Miss  Clayton 
dresses  so  well  and  the  other  girl  so  badly  ?" 

Fielding  smiled.  "Her  clothes  are  no  better.  I 
guess  she  just  naturally  knows  how  to  wear  them, 
and  then  she  thinks  more  about  it  than  Margaret." 

"It's  wonderful  how  imitative  some  girls  are," 
said  Lusk.  "Now,  she  dresses  just  as  well,  apparent- 
ly, and  as  simply  as  any  of  the  city  folk  down  here. 
I've  known  several  women  just  like  that  in  New 
York.  Rubes  when  they  first  hit  the  town  and  in  a 
year  swell  dressers  for  fair.  Just  naturally  had  the 
knack.  Do  they  come  to  the  hotel  much?  I'd  like 
to  see  the  red-haired  one  again.  If  I'd  only  brought 
my  car,  we  might  have  had  a  fine  ride  to-night." 

"I  wish  you  had,"  Fielding  said,  smiling,  but  with 
just  a  shade  of  resentment  in  his  voice  at  Lusk's 
familiarity.  "However,  you'll  see  them  again — 
they're  sure  to  be  about  this  afternoon  when  they 
present  the  cup.  It's  quite  an  event  down  here." 

The  two  men  played  on  after  this  in  comparative 
silence.  Several  times  Lusk  asked  a  question  about 
Miss  Clayton — nothing  of  importance,  but  enough 


12  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

to  show  that  his  mind  was  still  busy  with  thoughts 
of  the  girl. 

Late  that  afternoon,  Lusk  again  met  her  at  the 
presentation  of  the  cup.  She  was  standing  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  crowd  that  had  gathered  around 
the  little  table  on  the  lawn  where  the  president  was 
about  to  deliver  his  speech  of  congratulation  to 
Fielding  who  had  proved  the  winner. 

Lusk  sidled  up  to  Miss  Clayton  and  his  strongly 
Semitic  features  broke  into  a  smile  of  greeting. 
"Glad  to  see  you  again.  I've  been  looking  all  over 
the  place  for  you." 

The  girl  was  looking  at  Porter  Fielding  at  the 
time  and  made  no  effort  to  show  that  she  was  not 
much  more  interested  in  the  president's  speech  than 
in  the  words  of  the  little  broker. 

"That  was  very  good  of  you,"  she  said  indiffer- 
ently, and  then  added  with  sudden  enthusiasm: 
"Isn't  it  fine  that  Porter  won  the  cup;  and  he  de- 
served it,  too !  That  was  a  wonderful  second  round 
he  made.  Did  you  play  this  afternoon?" 

"Not  me,"  Lusk  sighed.  "I  was  out  of  my  class 
altogether,"  and  then  hurriedly  changing  the  subject 
he  added:  "Fielding  says  you  live  here.  Must  be 
mighty  slow  for  a  girl  like  you." 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  13 

She  looked  down  at  the  smiling  eager  face  of  the 
broker,  and  her  scarlet  lips  broke  into  the  same 
cheerful  laugh  that  had  first  attracted  her  to  him. 

"Oh,  it's  not  so  bad  as  that.  Pretty  quiet  in  the 
winter,  but  there's  always  something  doing  in  the 
summer  season.  Lots  of  strangers  and  ocean  bath- 
ing and  sailing  on  the  river  and  hops  at  the  hotels 
on  Saturday  nights." 

"Ever  been  to  New  York?"  Lusk  asked. 

"Just  for  the  day,  two  or  three  times." 

"Enjoy  yourself?" 

"Pretty  well.  Went  to  a  matinee  once  and 
vaudeville  a  couple  of  times.  You  can't  do  much  in 
one  day,  you  know." 

Lusk  shook  his  head  sympathetically.  "That's 
right,  and  then  New  York  doesn't  wake  up  until 
pretty  late  at  night." 

The  man's  eyes  ceased  their  constant  habit  of 
shifting  and  he  looked  into  those  of  the  girl.  "Ever 
think  of  going  on  the  stage  yourself  ?" 

Lusk  knew  two  things — Wall  Street  and  the  thea- 
ter, and  he  therefore  jumped  at  a  topic  of  which  he 
could  speak  with  authority. 

Fay  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "That's  a  funny 
question  for  a  man  to  ask  a  girl  whom  he's  just  met. 


14  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  thought  of  it  just  as  I've 
thought  of  a  lot  of  other  things  that  I  might  do 
when  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  Pleasantville." 
And  then  as  if  from  a  civil  desire  to  say  something, 
rather  than  from  any  real  curiosity,  "Is  it  hard  to 
get  on  the  stage?" 

"Hard  to  get  on  the  stage!"  Lusk  repeated,  and 
anxious  to  appear  important  in  the  eyes  of  the  pretty 
girl  at  his  side,  laughed  at  the  very  thought.  "Hard 
for  a  girl  with  your  looks ;  not  much,  it  isn't  hard  !  I 
could  get  you  a  job  to-morrow  as  a  show-girl  at 
twenty-five  or  thirty  a  week." 

Miss  Clayton  pursed  her  lips,  crinkled  her  fore- 
head, and  regarded  the  broker  with  a  new  and 
amused  interest. 

"Could  you  really?" 

"Sure,  I  could.  I  know  all  the  managers,  know 
'em  well,  and  once  in  a  while  I  take  a  little  flier  in  a 
show  myself.  Better  come  on  in — the  acting's  fine." 

But  the  girl,  with  an  evident  deside  to  end  this 
particular  topic  of  conversation,  smilingly  shook  her 
head.  "I'm  afraid  not;  I  think  I'd  better  stick  to 
Pleasantville  and  the  home  folk." 

The  president's  speech  was  very  short,  and  coming 
to  an  abrupt  end,  Fielding  stepped  forward  to  receive 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  15 

the  prize.  The  women  clapped  their  gloved  hands, 
and  the  men  who  had  lost  to  him  gave  three  rousing 
cheers,  and  then  in  a  spirit  of  revenge  called  loudly 
on  the  winner  for  a  speech.  Lusk  turned  to  speak 
to  Miss  Clayton  but  there  was  something  in  her  look 
that  checked  him,  and  with  a  grim  smile  of  under- 
standing,!^ turned  away  again.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  winner, as  were  those  of  all  of  the  little  crowd 
on  the  lawn.  At  the  moment  Porter  Fielding  was 
a  sight  to  attract  the  undivided  attention  of  any 
woman.  Very  tall,  hatless,  his  arms  and  throat 
bared,  holding  his  golf-bag  in  one  hand  and  the  cup 
in  the  other,  his  well-poised  head  held  high,  he  stood 
smiling  back  at  the  friendly  smiling  faces  about  him. 
Perhaps  from  a  spirit  of  sheer  admiration  for  the 
kind  of  manly  beauty  that  he  so  wofully  lacked, 
or  perhaps  to  make  quite  sure  of  his  supposition, 
Lusk  once  more  turned  to  his  companion. 

"Good-looking  boy,  eh  ?"  he  asked,  smiling  broad- 
ly. He  saw  the  girl's  face  flush  and  her  hands 
tighten  suddenly  about  the  handle  of  her  parasol. 
With  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  Fielding,  she  answered 
the  broker  in  an  almost  inaudible  whisper. 

"Good-looking?  Why,  I  think  Porter  is  wonder- 
ful. Quite  wonderful,  don't  you?" 


16  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

Lusk  looked  down  at  his  own  carefully  creased 
flannels,  his  spotless  white  felt  shoes,  and  brushed  a 
fleck  of  thread  from  his  double-breasted  blue  serge 
coat.  Then  he  smiled  at  his  own  conspicuous  neat- 
ness and  at  the  thought  of  how  curiously  emotional 
women  were  at  times.  But  this  humorous  train  of 
thought  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  Miss  Clayton, 
who  was  speaking  to  him  again  and  with  much  spirit. 

"Are  you  smiling  at  me,  Mr.  Lusk,"  she  asked, 
"or  rather  at  something  I  said  ?  Because  if  you  are, 
I  think  you're  extremely  rude." 

For  a  moment  he  stared  at  the  girl  in  open-eyed 
wonder,  and  his  thin  putty  face  turned  scarlet.  His 
confusion,  however,  was  short-lived. 

"I  wasn't  laughing  at  you  or  your  remark,"  he 
said,  grinning  up  at  her  cheerfully. 

"No,"  she  said;  "what  then?" 

Lusk  grew  suddenly  serious,  and  he  looked  her 
evenly  in  the  eyes.  "I  was  thinking,"  he  said,  "what 
a  little  part  masculine  beauty  has  always  played  in 
the  history  of  the  world.  Female  beauty,  yes,  but 
good  looks  in  a  man  don't  count — never  have,  never 
will  count." 

The  broker  half  closed  his  eyes  as  if  in  earnest 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  17 

thought.  "Bonds  count,  and  stocks,  that  is,  good 
stocks  count,  and  first  mortgages  count,  and  the  best 
of  all  is  cash.  And  some  day,  Miss  Clayton,  you 
will  say  that  I  am  right,  or  if  you  don't  then  I  don't 
know  women." 

The  crowd  about  the  table  had  broken  up  into 
little  groups,  and  Fielding  was  walking  across  the 
lawn  with  a  girl,  tall,  very  fair  and  rather  pretty,  but 
she  would  have  been  conspicuous  anywhere  for  the 
very  good-looking  clothes  she  wore.  He  was  show- 
ing her  the  engraving  on  the  cup,  and  they  were 
laughing  and  both  of  them  seemed  to  be  very  pleased 
and  happy  over  his  success.  For  a  few  moments  as 
they  strolled  slowly  toward  the  hotel,  Fay  Clayton 
followed  them  with  her  eyes.  Then  she  turned  back 
to  Lusk. 

"I'm  afraid  Porter  agrees  with  you,  Mr.  Lusk," 
she  said,  "even  if  I  do  not." 

The  broker  smiled  knowingly  and  wagged  his 
head. 

"You  mean  the  blond  lady  Fielding  is  talking 
to  is  rich?" 

"Doesn't  she  look  it?     You  don't  wear  all-lace 


i8 

dresses  like  that  when  you're  poor,  not  much  you 
don't." 

"And  look  at  the  pearls!"  sighed  Lusk.  "Who  is 
she?" 

"Wilmerding — Blanche  Wilmerding.  They  have 
a  cottage  down  here  on  the  beach.  Her  father  is  a 
banker  or  something  like  that  in  New  York." 

"Oi,  oi!"  exclaimed  Lusk.  "I  know,  David  Wil- 
merding, the  head  of  Wilmerding  &  Wilson.  That 
old  man's  got  money  he  hasn't  spent." 

Fay  turned  to  Lusk  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Good-by,"  she  said,  "I  must  be  going  home  now. 
It's  getting  quite  late,  and  they'll  be  waiting  supper 
for  me." 

But  Lusk  insisted  on  walking  home  with)  her,  and 
in  spite  of  her  protests  refused  to  take  no  for  an 
answer.  They  stopped  at  the  drug  store  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  at  great  risk  to  his  own  digestion,  he  made 
her  drink  soda-water  with  him,  and  afterward  pre- 
sented her  with  the  largest  box  of  candy  the  store 
contained.  He  would  have  liked  to  show  her  some 
further  and  more  expensive  attentions,  but  there  was 
nothing  else  in  the  shop  that  he  could  well  offer 
her.  During  the  remainder  of  the  walk,  Fay  con- 
tinued to  laugh  at  his  jokes  and  smile  at  the  more  or 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  19 

less  interesting  stories  of  his  life  in  New  York,  but 
Lusk  was  sufficiently  clever  to  know  that  the  girl  at 
heart  fancied  neither  him  nor  his  stories. 

He  left  her  at  the  gate  of  the  Claytons'  cottage 
and  slowly  retraced  his  steps  to  the  Holt  House. 
The  superlative  animal  beauty  of  the  girl,  the  ap- 
parent extreme  poverty  of  the  people  who  had 
adopted  her,  and  her  complete  indifference  to  his 
own  imagined  importance  had  confused  and  an- 
noyed the  little  broker  considerably.  Her  exact  po- 
sition, too,  seemed  something  of  a  contradiction  and 
hard  to  place.  Apparently  she  knew  most  of  the 
women  who  belonged  to  the  summer  colony  and  all 
of  the  men,  but  even  in  the  short  time  he  had  known 
her,  the  observant  Lusk  could  see  that  at  least  the 
women  did  not  treat  her  quite  as  one  of  themselves. 
For  a  moment  he  forgot  his  business  cares  and  his 
friends  in  town  and  thought  only  of  the  girl  with 
the  red  hair  and  scarlet  lips  and  big  blue  eyes  which 
seemed  always  to  be  laughing  at  but  never  with  him. 
He  had  intended  going  to  Long  Branch  after  supper 
to  call  on  some  friends  who  had  a  cottage  there,  but 
at  the  last  moment  he  changed  his  mind  and  fol- 
lowed a  crowd  of  young  people  from  the  Holt 
House,  who  were  on  their  way  to  a  dance  at  one  of 


20  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

the  hotels  on  the  beach,  and  where  he  believed  he 
would  be  most  likely  to  find  her. 

From  the  dark  piazza  he  saw  her  in  the  ballroom 
with  Fielding.  It  was  a  warm  night  and  her  face 
was  flushed  with  the  heat.  Her  big  blue  eyes  shone 
with  pleasure  and  the  excitement  of  the  dance,  and 
her  wonderful  red  hair  fell  in  crisp  curls  over  her 
damp  forehead  and  neck.  She  wore  a  simple  lin- 
gerie dress,  which  was  in  striking  contrast  to  many 
of  the  gowns  worn  by  the  other  dancers,  but  the 
beauty  of  her  face  and  tall  lithe  figure  made  her 
easily  the  most  conspicuous  woman  in  the  room. 
From  his  point  of  vantage  in  the  shadows  of  the 
veranda  Lusk  looked  at  Fay's  cheap  simple  frock 
and  her  black  cotton  stockings,  and  smiled  at  the 
thought  of  how  much  more  wonderful  she  would 
look  in  the  kind  of  evening  dresses  that  were  worn 
by  the  women  he  knew  in  New  York.  He  would  have 
liked  to  ask  her  to  dance,  but  in  his  constant 
quest  for  gold  this  was,  to  his  present  sorrow,  one 
of  the  many  social  accomplishments  which  he  had 
neglected  entirely. 

Once  during  the  evening,  while  walking  with 
Fielding  Fay  met  him  on  the  porch,  and  of  her 
own  initiative  stopped  and  chatted  with  him.  After 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  21 

she  had  left  him,  Lusk  dropped  into  a  deep  wicker 
chair  and  sat  staring  out  at  the  black  endless  sea 
and  the  long  narrow  silver  crescents  of  foamy 
breakers  running  up  the  flat  gray  beach.  The  whole 
place  seemed  filled  with  her  presence.  Her  joyous 
laugh  continued  to  ring  in  his  ears,  and  he  could 
still  feel  the  grasp  of  her  strong  damp  hand  in  his. 
For  a  long  time  he  sat  thus,  unconscious  of  the 
music  or  of  the  chatter  of  the  people  about  him. 
Then  suddenly  realizing  his  lonely  position,  he 
shrugged  his  narrow  shoulders,  and  pulling  him- 
self slowly  out  of  the  depths  of  the  chair,  lighted  a 
cigar,  and  started  to  walk  back  to  the  Holt  House. 
The  morning  following  he  went  early  to  the  bath- 
ing-grounds and  patiently  waited  for  her  coming. 
At  last  he  saw  her  walking  from  the  bath-houses 
toward  the  sea,  her  black  bathing  suit  silhouetted 
against  the  white  glaring  sand.  When  she  had 
neared  the  water's  edge,  Fay  threw  herself  at 
full  length  on  the  beach,  and  the  men  who  were  with 
her  gathered  about  in  a  little  circle.  Lusk  made  a 
half-hearted  move  to  join  them,  and  then  there  came 
to  him  a  sudden  realization  that  he  was  not  wanted, 
and  he  fell  back  into  his  former  position.  With 
envious  eyes  he  looked  at  the  broad  shoulders  and 


22  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

athletic  figures  of  the  men  in  their  bathing  suits 
seated  about  her,  and  with  envious  ears  he  listened 
to  snatches  of  their  talk,  and  their  free  careless 
laughter.  It  was  only  for  one  brief  moment  that 
he  decided  that  he  would  hire  a  suit  and  follow  them 
into  the  surf,  and  then  he  thought  of  what  a  sorry 
figure  he  would  cut  alongside  of  her  big  brawny 
friends,  and  dismissed  the  idea  as  absurd.  For 
more  than  an  hour  he  watched  Fay  and  her  admirers 
swim  and  dive  and  plunge  about  in  the  breakers,  race 
up  and  down  the  hard  smooth  beach,  and  from 
sheer  exhaustion  throw  themselves  on  the  hot  sand. 
Once,  from  the  water,  she  recognized  him  and  waved 
to  him  to  join  them,  but  in  answer  Lusk  only  smiled 
feebly  and  shook  his  head. 

It  was  after  the  bath  was  over,  and  she  was 
dressed  again  and  on  her  way  to  join  her  friends 
who  were  waiting  for  her,  that  Fay  took  pity  on 
Lusk's  loneliness  and  spoke  to  him  again.  She  came 
up  from  behind  where  he  sat  and  noiselessly  dropped 
to  the  soft  sand  at  his  side.  He  looked  about  sud- 
denly and  saw  her  pretty  face  aglow  from  the  bath 
and  the  hard  exercise,  and  the  great  masses  of  red 
hair,  hanging  loosely  about  her  shoulders,  and  reach- 
ing far  below  her  waist.  For  a  moment  he  gazed 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  23 

in  frank  wonder  at  her  splendid  beauty  and  wonder- 
ful physical  condition  and  with  much  difficulty  tried 
to  utter  some  words  of  welcome. 

"You  see,"  Fay  laughed,  "I  had  to  come  to  you. 
I  don't  think  you  like  me  at  all,  Mr.  Lusk." 
,  The  broker  blushed  and  stammered  a  few  unintel- 
ligible words  of  protest. 

"You  never  asked  me  to  dance  last  night,"  Fay 
ran  on,  "and  you've  kept  away  from  me  all  this 
morning.  Now  all  these  other  men  dance  and  bathe 
with  me  and  hang  around  until  I'm  tired  of  the  sight 
of  them." 

Lusk  no  longer  blushed,  and  the  power  of  speech 
had  once  more  come  back  to  him. 

"I  can't  dance,"  he  said,  "and  I  can't  swim,  but 
last  night  and  to-day  I  haven't  taken  my  eyes  off  of 
you.  Miss  Clayton,  so  help  me,  you're  the  most 
beautiful  woman  I  ever  saw !" 

Fay  looked  into  Lusk's  serious  blinking  eyes,  and 
laughed  aloud. 

"That's  the  most  sincere  and  heartfelt  compli- 
ment I  ever  had  paid  me.  I  wish  you'd  tell  me 
things  like  that  often,  Mr.  Lusk.  You  see  you're  a 
regular  man,  and  it  means  so  much  more  than  the 
kind  of  fluff  these  kids  talk." 


24  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

Fay  pulled  herself  to  her  knees  and  held  out  her 
hand  to  him.  "Good-by,"  she  said,  "and  don't  get 
up,  please." 

"You  must  leave  me  so  soon?"  he  begged. 

"Must  But  don't  you  neglect  me  after  this.  I 
want  to  hear  all  about  your  gay  life  in  New  York 
and  on  Wall  Street,  and  your  friends  on  the  stage." 

Lusk  was  standing  now,  and  when  he  had  raised 
the  girl  to  her  feet,  looked  her  squarely  in  the  eyes. 

"I'm  going  to  put  you  there,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"Where,"  Fay  asked,  "on  the  stage?" 

"That's  it.  I'm  going  to  make  a  great  actress  of 
you." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Lusk.    I'll  bet  you  don't." 

With  a  farewell  smile  and  a  wave  of  her  hand  she 
ran  away  to  join  her  friends,  and  once  more  Lusk 
was  left  alone.  As  he  walked  slowly  back  to  the 
hotel  to  his  midday  dinner,  his  thoughts  were  all  of 
the  last  -bantering  words  that  Fay  Clayton  had 
spoken  to  him,  and  the  longer  he  thought  of  them 
the  more  the  new  idea  she  had  planted  in  his  mind 
pleased  and  interested  him.  On  the  afternoon  pre- 
vious, when  he  had  first  spoken  to  her  of  the  stage 
as  a  profession,  he  had  done  so  because  it  was  one  of 
the  very  few  subjects,  apart  from  his  business,  that 


I  am  going  to  make  a  great  actress  ot  you. 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  25 

he  really  knew  and  on  which  he  could  talk  glibly  and 
amusingly  to  women.  But  now  the  idea  had  sudden- 
ly become  a  matter  of  real  consideration  and  fraught 
with  the  most  interesting  possibilities.  His  hands 
clasped  behind  his  back,  his  beady  eyes  smiling  under 
lowered  brows,  he  walked  slowly  along  the  country 
road,  carefully  reviewing  the  situation  from  its 
many  and  varied  angles. 

Down  there  on  the  beach  was  a  young  woman  of 
unusual  beauty,  and  apparently  brimming  over  with 
health,  and  the  joy  of  living.  Had  the  girl's  circum- 
stances been  other  than  they  were,  he  would  have 
passed  on  with  a  regretful  but  philosophic  sigh. 
Blanche  Wilmerding,  for  instance,  the  daughter  of 
old  David  Wilmerding,  had  no  place  in  his  scheme 
of  life.  Lusk  knew  that  the  firm  of  Lusk  Brothers 
was  not  the  kind  of  firm  with  which  the  old  conserv- 
ative house  of  Wilmerding  &  Wilson  would  deal, 
that  is,  if  it  could  possibly  be  avoided,  and  he  also 
knew  that  the  doors  of  Wilmerding's  house  in  New 
York  or  of  his  villa  on  the  beach  at  Pleasantville 
would  never  be  open  to  him. 

But  the  case  of  Fay  Clayton  was  altogether  dif- 
ferent. She  was  a  girl  without  means  or  any 
defined  position,  living  in  almost  poverty  as  the 


26  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

adopted  daughter  of  simple  fisher-folk.  He  ar- 
gued to  himself  that  a  girl  in  so  anomalous  a  posi- 
tion must  of  necessity  rebel  against  its  hardships, 
and  would  willingly  free  herself  from  the  slight 
bonds  that  held  her — that  is,  she  would  if  the 
inducements  to  break  the  bonds  could  be  made  suf- 
ficiently attractive.  He  knew  that  even  Fay  Clay- 
ton herself,  notwithstanding  her  lack  of  worldly 
knowledge,  must  appreciate  how  few  were  the  roads 
of  escape  open  to  a  woman  situated  as  she  was.  And 
of  all  these  roads,  Lusk  knew,  from  his  own  experi- 
ence, that  the  stage  would,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten, 
prove  the  greatest  lure  to  a  girl  of  Fay's  spirits,  and 
to  her  love  of  a  life  of  action  and  one  that  was  en- 
tirely free  from  restraint.  To  be  sure  she  had 
laughed  at  his  mere  suggestion  of  going  on  the  stage, 
but  when  he  had  had  the  opportunity  to  speak  of  the 
great  possibilities  of  the  profession,  the  immense  re- 
turns in  fame  and  fortune  that  awaited  the  success- 
ful actress,  he  was  quite  sure  that  he  could  reach 
something  deeper  in  Fay  than  her  simple  love  of  ex- 
citement. It  was  through  this  finer  bigger  feeling 
of  ambition  that  he  hoped  to  break  down  any  real 
prejudices  the  girl  might  have  against  the  stage  as 
a  profession. 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  27 

Max  Lusk  was  without  tact,  or  mental  or  moral 
cultivation,  but  he  had  an  indomitable,  almost  brutal 
will,  and  when  he  wanted  anything  in  this  world  he 
wanted  it  very  badly,  and  the  greater  the  obstacles 
thrown  in  his  way,  the  greater  the  pleasure  to  took 
in  fighting  for  the  prize.  He  was  a  man  of  quick 
thought  and  quick  action,  and  in  addition  to  this  he 
believed  Fay  Clayton  to  be  the  most  beautiful  woman 
he  had  ever  seen.  Between  the  time  he  left  her  at 
the  bathing-grounds  and  his  return  to  the  hotel,  he 
had  carefully  arranged  his  plan  of  action.  It  was 
out  of  the  question  to  imagine  that  she  would  go  to 
New  York  alone  and  accept  his  personal  protection, 
or  permit  him  to  assist  her  financially  during  her 
career  as  an  embryo  actress.  The  key  to  the  situa- 
tion— at  least  so  Lusk  believed — lay  in  Porter  Field- 
ing. Even  in  the  two  days  the  broker  had  known 
Fay  she  had  left  no  reasonable  doubt  as  to  her  devo- 
tion and  admiration  for  him.  She  was  a  girl  whose 
emotions  lay  very  near  the  surface,  and  she  made  no 
effort  to  conceal  her  feelings  for  Fielding  to  any 
one,  even  to  a  man  whom  she  knew  so  slightly  as 
Lusk. 

Where  Fielding  went  it  would  probably  be  easy 
to  get  Fay  to  follow.  Therefore,  the  first  move 


28  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

was  to  get  Fielding  to  New  York,  and  after  all  Lusk 
had  seen  and  learned  that  day,  the  task  did  not  seem 
difficult  Fielding  was  without  work,  which  the 
broker  could  offer  him,  and  in  the  same  town,  too, 
where  the  rich  Miss  Wilmerding  lived.  Lusk  knew 
that  the  latter  coincidence  might  mean  little  or  noth- 
ing, but  he  did  know  that  good  positions  in  brokers' 
offices  in  New  York  were  exceedingly  rare  and  not 
to  be  refused  by  boys  from  the  country.  He  also 
appreciated,  even  from  his  short  acquaintance,  that 
with  all  his  good  looks  and  his  charming  courtesy  of 
manner,  Porter  Fielding  was  a  rather  weak  soul, 
and  probably  easily  led.  Down  here  in  the  country, 
in  the  open,  on  the  golf  links,  he  knew  that  he  had 
no  chance  against  this  young  good-looking  athlete. 
But  let  the  boy  come  to  New  York,  and  then  Fay 
Clayton  could  compare  them  and  the  extent  of  their 
power — not  in  the  sunshine,  but  under  the  searching 
white  lights  and  the  pink  candle-shades  of  the 
Broadway  restaurants  where  strength  and  good 
looks  in  men  counted  not  at  all ;  back  in  town,  that 
is,  the  town  that  Lusk  knew,  a  tainted  and  unreal 
land,  where  only  money  and  automobiles  and  gor- 
geous apartments  count,  and  where  girls  learn  so 
easily  and  quickly  the  love  of  beautiful  clothes  and 


IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT  29 

wonderful  jewels,  and  acquire  the  passion  to  have 
better  clothes  and  more  wonderful  jewels  than  any 
other  woman. 

During  the  long  afternoon  Lusk  had  completed 
his  plans,  and  after  supper  was  over  he  looked  up 
Fielding  and  asked  him  to  walk  with  him  to  the 
river.  For  half  an  hour  they  sat  on  a  bench  smok- 
ing Lusk's  best  cigars.  Before  them  the  blue  waters 
of  the  Natasqua  River  danced  and  sparkled  in  the 
last  rays  of  the  dying  sun,  and  the  fresh  green  grass 
and  the  spring  wild  flowers  grew  all  about  them.  It 
was  in  this  setting  of  rippling  water  and  fragrant 
growing  things  that  Lusk  protested  his  admiration 
for  Fielding  and  made  his  offer — the  offer  that 
was  meant  only  to  bring  Fay  Clayton  to  New  York, 
— to  the  big  town  where  the  bright  lights  would 
blind  her  to  the  physical  deficiencies  and  yet  throw 
into  a  brilliant  relief  the  great  financial  resources  of 
Max  Lusk. 

It  was  but  natural  that  Fielding  should  at  once 
realize  the  advantage  of  this  opportunity  that  the 
broker  offered  him.  It  meant  work  at  once,  living 
wages  for  the  present,  and  for  the  future — at  least 
so  Lusk  assured  him — splendid  possibilities  of  great 
wealth  and  the  power  that  only  wealth  brings.  He 


30  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

was  also  conscious  of  the  additional  fact,  although 
neither  he  nor  Lusk  made  mention  of  it,  that  he  was 
to  live  permanently  in  New  York  where  he  already 
had  many  friends,  chief  among  whom  were  David 
Wilmerding  and  his  daughter.  That  he  would  have 
to  give  up  the  summer  months  in  the  country  meant 
little  to  Fielding,  for  his  life  at  Pleasantville  had  al- 
ready become  irksome  to  him.  And  besides,  Lusk 
had  promised  that  they  should  come  down  together 
every  Saturday  morning  to  spend  the  week-end  at 
the  Holt  House. 

From  the  moment  that  Lusk  had  first  made  a  defi- 
nite proposition,  Fielding  knew  that  he  would 
accept  it,  but  taking  himself  rather  seriously  as  a 
man  of  affairs,  he  deemed  it  to  his  advantage  not  to 
appear  too  eager.  When  the  broker  had  finished  his 
carefully  worded  offer,  and  recited  the  many  advan- 
tages that  would  accrue  from  it,  there  was  a  long 
silence,  during  which  Lusk  cast  occasional  furtive 
glances  at  Fielding,  who,  with  his  broad  shoulders 
resting  against  the  bench,  his  arms  folded,  looked 
steadfastly  at  the  deep  blue  waters  of  the  little  river. 

"It  would  be  hard  to  give  up  all  this,"  he  said  at 
last.  "I  missed  it  terribly  that  year  I  was  working 
in  Jersey  City." 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  31 

Lusk  smiled  and  twisted  his  cigar  slowly  between 
his  lips. 

"I  suppose  so.  I  suppose  it  was  hard,  but  Jersey 
City  isn't  New  York.  You  won't  find  the  Natasqua 
River  there,  but,  my  boy,  so  much  to  make  up  for  it, 
believe  me.  I  admire  your  love  for  the  country,  and 
that's  the  very  reason  I  want  you  in  the  office.  City- 
bred  boys  are  no  use — they're  born  tired,  but  the  boy 
from  the  country  is  fresh  and  strong  and  ambitious. 
Look  over  the  men  who  have  made  fortunes  in  New 
York,  and  see  how  many  were  born  New  Yorkers. 
Not  many,  I  can  tell  you.  Besides,  why  should  you 
stay  here  ?  You  say  you  are  all  alone  in  the  world. 
Why  waste  your  time  on  golf  and  teaching  a  lot  of 
kids  in  a  village  schoolhouse  ?  Get  out  into  the  big 
puddle  and  splash  about  a  bit,  and  watch  the  sharks 
swallow  the  minnies  and  look  out  that  you're  a 
shark,  and  not  a  minnie." 

Fielding  got  up,  and  facing  the  broker,  held  out 
his  hand. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  go  you." 

"Good  for  you !"  Lusk  cried.  "I've  a  flask  in  my 
bag  up  at  the  house.  Let's  seal  the  bargain  with  a 
drink." 

But  Fielding  begged  off.     "A  little  later  I  will, 


32  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

but  if  you'll  excuse  me  I  think  I'll  finish  my  cigar 
down  here.    I  want  to  think  it  over." 

"Of  course,  of  course,  you  do,"  Lusk  said  sympa- 
thetically. "Very  natural  of  you,  but  don't  get  too 
sentimental  over  leaving  the  old  place.  Don't  forget 
you'll  be  running  down  every  Saturday  and  in  a 
sixty-horse-power  car  just  like  a  regular  broker 
should.  So  long — see  you  at  the  house  later." 

Lusk  slowly  started  on  his  way  back  to  the  hotel, 
but  when  he  had  reached  the  first  turning  in  the  road 
he  stopped  in  the  shadow  of  a  clump  of  trees  where, 
unobserved,  he  could  watch  Fielding.  With  a  know- 
ing smile  he  saw  the  young  man  look  over  his 
shoulder  down  the  road  Lusk  had  just  taken,  and 
then  spring  to  his  feet  and  hurry  away  along  a  path 
that  would  lead  him  through  the  woods  and  event- 
ually to  Fay  Clayton's  home. 

"I  thought  so,"  Lusk  mumbled,  and  started  again 
on  his  way  to  the  hotel.  "But  I  won  my  first  trick, 
anyhow.  That  boy  a  shark  in  the  big  puddle ! 
They'll  eat  him  alive." 

Fay  saw  Fielding  first  when  he  was  still  far  down 
the  road  and  waved  her  hand,  and  then  she  and  Mar- 
garet hurried  down  the  path  to  meet  him  at  the  gate. 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  33 

Fielding's  face  was  smiling  with  happiness,  and  as 
he  held  out  both  hands  to  the  girls,  he  fairly  shouted 
his  good  news  so  that  the  Claytons,  sitting  on  the 
porch  of  the  little  cottage,  might  hear  of  it  at  the 
same  time  as  the  others. 

"Congratulate  me,  everybody,"  he  cried ;  "I've  got 
a  job  in  New  York." 

Porter  sat  on  the  porch  steps,  and  the  others  gath- 
ered about  and  constantly  interrupted  his  story  with 
exclamations  of  surprise  and  pleasure.  Old  Clayton 
rocked  slowly  up  and  down  in  his  favorite  chair, 
stroked  his  white  stubble  beard,  and  took  his  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth  long  enough  to  say,  "Well  done, 
my  boy,  you  deserve  the  honor." 

Mrs.  Clayton  brushed  back  her  hair,  and  putting 
on  her  spectacles,  regarded  him  with  a  lingering  look 
of  pride,  worthy  of  his  own  mother,  who  could 
never  share  in  her  boy's  prosperity.  Margaret 
slapped  him  violently  on  his  broad  shoulders,  but 
Fay  remained  quiet  until  the  story  was  quite  fin- 
ished, and  then  silently  her  hand  stole  out,  and  plac- 
ing it  over  his,  she  gently  pressed  it.  And  then  as  a 
great  treat  and  an  unusual  dissipation,  Mr.  Clayton 
got  out  a  bottle  of  rye  whisky  and  two  glasses,  and 
he  and  Fielding  drank  to  the  health  of  the  "New 


34  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

King  of  Wall  Street".  Margaret  and  Mrs.  Clayton 
continued  to  bombard  him  with  endless  questions, 
pertinent  and  impertinent,  about  his  plans,  but  Fay 
remained  almost  silent,  wondering  what  kind  of  a 
man  was  this  Lusk  who  in  two  short  days  had  taken 
such  an  interest  in  an  unknown  boy  and  girl  in  a 
little  Jersey  village.  When  it  came  time  for  Porter 
to  return  to  the  hotel,  she  walked  with  him  a  short 
distance  down  the  road  that  they  had  traveled  so 
often  and  so  many  years  together.  When  they  had 
reached  the  path  that  led  through  the  woods  to  the 
hotel,  Fay  stopped  and  held  out  both  her  hands  to 
him. 

"If  you  are  to  go  so  soon,"  she  said,  "perhaps  we 
had  better  make  this  our  good-by.  We  mayn't  have 
another  chance.  If — " 

"Many,  I  hope,"  Fielding  interrupted  her. 

"I  hope  so,  too,  Porter,"  she  went  on,  "but  if  we 
shouldn't  I  want  to  tell  you  how  very  proud  I  am 
of  you  and  how  proud  I  know  that  I'm  always  go- 
ing to  be  of  you.  You  see,  Porter,  you've  been 
pretty  much  everything  to  me — all  of  my  life,  and 
so  I'm  going  to  miss  you  terribly,  even  if  you  do 
come  back  to  see  me  on  Saturdays.  I  suppose  it's 
because  neither  of  us  had  any  real  people  of  our 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  35 

own  that  we  were  brought  so  close  together,  and 
that  has  made  us  understand  each  other  so  well." 

She  took  her  hands  from  his  and  laid  them  on  his 
shoulders  and  looked  up  at  him  with  dimmed  eyes. 

"Good-by,  Fay,  dear,"  he  said. 

"Good-by  to  you,"  she  whispered;  "and  always 
for  my  sake  be  a  good  boy  and  a  fine  one,  too,  Por- 
ter, won't  you?  And  here's  good  luck  to  you,  and 
God  bless  you." 

He  took  her  pretty  tear-stained  face  between  his 
strong  hands  and  kissed  her  on  the  broad  clear  fore- 
head, but  the  next  moment  she  had  slipped  from  him 
and  with  lowered  head  was  hurrying  back  to  the  cot- 
tage. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  FEW  days  later  Porter  Fielding  had  settled 
down  as  a  clerk  in  the  offices  of  Lusk  Broth- 
ers. It  was  understood  that  he  was  there  to  learn 
the  business,  and  his  duties  were  far  from  onerous. 
Various  young  men  at  various  times  had  been  given 
clerkships  in  these  same  big  mahogany  and  mirrored 
offices  for  various  and  often  unknown  causes,  and 
therefore  the  members  of  the  firm  and  their  em- 
ployees not  only  did  not  question  his  presence,  but 
did  their  best  to  make  it  pleasant  for  the  newcomer. 
It  was  at  the  advice  of  one  of  his  fellow- clerks 
that  Fielding  took  a  small  furnished  apartment  in 
preference  to  going  to  a  boarding-house.  There 
were  several  restaurants  in  the  neighborhood  where 
he  could  eat  fairly  well  at  small  expense,  but  there 
was  little  temptation  to  linger  over  his  meals  and, 
therefore,  his  days  and  nights  were  practically  di- 
vided between  the  office  and  his  apartment.  He 
knew  the  city  but  slightly,  and  in  addition  to  this, 
his  present  salary  did  not  permit  of  many  of  the 

36 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  37 

town's  pleasures.  His  days  at  the  office  were  full 
enough,  and  it  was  only  during  the  late  afternoon 
and  the  long  evenings  after  dinner  that  he  had  time 
to  think  of  the  lazy  days  at  Pleasantville  and  to 
sometimes  wish  for  a  game  of  golf  or  a  plunge  in 
the  surf  or  a  sail  with  Fay  or  Blanche  Wilmerding 
on  the  little  river. 

But  even  if  he  did  occasionally  feel  the  lone- 
liness of  a  great  city,  and  suffer  from  a  real  feel- 
ing of  homesickness,  he  knew  that  he  was  only 
serving  the  apprenticeship  that  all  young  men  with- 
out means  must  serve,  and  in  his  heart  he  was 
glad  and  grateful  for  the  opportunity  to  get  once 
more  into  action.  Surrounded  as  he  was  at  the  of- 
fice by  men  who  could  afford  to  indulge  their  every 
whim,  he  made  light  of  his  present  simple  life,  was 
confident  that  it  was  but  temporary,  and  with  such 
good  friends  back  of  him  did  not  doubt  for  one 
moment  that  money  and  social  success  were  almost 
within  his  grasp.  And  even  if  his  present  rather 
meager  salary  to  a  great  extent  did  narrow  his  life 
in  town,  he  had  always  before  him  the  prospect  of 
the  week-end  trip  with  Lusk  to  his  old  home. 

It  was  on  the  second  of  these  visits  to  Pleasant- 
ville when  Lusk  first  suggested  to  Fielding  the  idea 


38  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

that  Fay  Clayton  should  come  to  New  York  and 
look  for  employment  on  the  stage  or  elsewhere.  At 
the  time  they  were  flying  along  the  Shore  Road  in 
the  broker's  car.  The  sky  was  a  wonderful  tur- 
quoise blue,  the  road  was  well  oiled,  the  air  was 
balmy  with  the  odor  of  the  pine  forests,  the  cushions 
of  the  car  were  deep  and  luxurious — it  was  in  all 
ways  the  moment  to  consider  the  happiness  of  those 
less  fortunate  than  themselves. 

"It's  a  pity,"  Lusk  sighed.  "I  tell  you  it's  a  real 
pity  that  that  girl,  Fay  Clayton,  should  waste  her  life 
in  a  little  country  town.  Just  think  of  the  women 
who  have  succeeded  on  the  stage  and  in  business  in 
New  York  with  not  half  her  beauty  and  ability.  I 
tell  you,  Porter,  it's  a  crime." 

The  idea  was  entirely  new  to  Fielding,  and  for 
some  minutes  he  sat  in  silence,  looking  out  on  the 
flying  landscape.  Fay  had  meant  a  great  deal  to 
him  the  better  part  of  his  life,  much  more  than  any 
one  else,  but  he  had  always  pictured  her  as  part  of 
his  life  at  Pleasantville.  He  had  that  affection  for 
her  that  a  man  can  only  have  for  the  woman  he  has 
known  as  a  little  girl,  has  gone  to  school  with,  has 
played  with  and  fought  for,  and  seen  grow  and  de- 
velop from  a  slip  of  a  freckled  child  into  a  half 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  39 

grown  girl  and  then  into  a  woman,  and  in  this  case, 
a  wonderfully  beautiful  woman. 

During  a  long  talk  he  had  had  with  Fay  subse- 
quent to  the  night  when  he  had  first  told  her  that  he 
was  going  to  New  York,  they  had  planned  that, 
as  soon  as  he  was  settled,  she  and  her  sister 
Margaret  would  come  to  pay  him  a  long  visit. 
The  idea  that  she  would  ever  consider  coming 
there  to  live  had  never  occurred  to  him,  and  for 
certain  reasons  of  her  own,  Fay  had  not  told 
him  of  how  Lusk  had  urged  her  to  let  him  procure 
a  position  for  her  on  the  stage.  Exactly  as  to  what 
her  future  was  to  be  or  how  closely  it  was  to  be  al- 
lied with  his  own,  Fielding  had  given  but  little 
thought.  When  the  question  had  come  into  his  mind 
he  had  put  it  away  with  the  excuse  that  they  were 
both  very  young,  and  that  there  would  be  time 
enough  to  give  the  matter  serious  attention  when  he 
was  comfortably  settled  in  business.  And  in  addi- 
tion to  this,  it  must  be  remembered  that  while  he 
was  blessed  with  great  good  looks  and  much  ad- 
mired by  both  men  and  women,  especially  women, 
Porter  Fielding  was  at  heart  and  in  spirit  just  a  little 
weak  and  a  little  selfish  as  well. 

But  now,  on  this  bright  June  morning,  Lusk  had 


40  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

put  the  question  of  Fay's  future  squarely  before 
him,  and  as  her  best  friend  and  lifelong  adviser,  he 
found  it  a  most  difficult  question  to  answer. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Lusk,"  he  said  at  last,  "it's  so  hard 
for  me  to  say.  I  appreciate  your  thoughtfulness  in 
wanting  to  help  her,  and  I  know  she  would,  too,  but 
I  don't  think  the  idea  of  Fay's  working  ever  oc- 
curred to  either  of  us.  Of  course,  the  Claytons  are 
only  the  plainest  kind  of  people.  He's  a  fisherman, 
and  Mrs.  Clayton  has  helped  out  by  doing  washing 
for  the  boarders  during  the  summer ;  but  they've  al- 
ways treated  Fay  as  if  she  were  a  princess — that  is, 
they  did  as  far  as  they  were  able.  The  very  romance 
and  the  mystery  of  her  being  washed  ashore,  and  the 
fact  that  she  never  even  knew  her  own  name,  have 
made  them  treat  her  better  even  than  they  have  their 
own  child.  They  have  always  believed  that  she  came 
of  people  of  quality,  and  whether  she  did  or  not, 
they  have  regarded  her  as  something  to  be  looked 
up  to,  and  much  better  than  themselves.  Their  be- 
lief in  this  idea  has  been  so  real  that  they  have  made 
the  other  people  in  the  village  believe  it,  and,  to  be 
quite  frank,  I  think  the  girl  believes  it,  too.  Of 
course  I  have  thought  that  Fay  might  leave  the  Clay- 
tons and  Pleasantville  some  day  when  she  was  older, 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  41 

but  it  would  be  because  she  married — never  to  go 
on  the  stage  or  to  work  in  an  office.  I  think  if  she 
did  either  it  would  kill  the  poor  old  Claytons." 

Lusk  gazed  gloomily  at  the  chauffeur's  back,  and 
sank  deeper  into  the  yielding  cushions  of  the  car. 
For  the  moment  he  was  greatly  discouraged  at  Field- 
ing's views,  because  he  knew  that  the  young  man's 
words  would  have  much  if  not  everything  to  do  with 
the  girl's  final  decision. 

"Well,  you  know  best,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  slowly 
shaking  his  head,  "but  it  seems  an  awful  wasted 
life  to  me  for  a  girl  like  that.  Think  how  proud  you 
would  all  be  if  she  went  on  the  stage  and  made  good, 
just  as  you're  going  to  make  good  on  the  Street.  To 
be  a  famous  actress  would  surely  be  better  than 
spending  her  days  in  a  Jersey  village.  I  know  it's 
all  right  now  in  the  good  old  summer-time,  but 
consider  those  winter  nights!  Huh,  it's  awful  just 
to  think  of  it !" 

Lusk  pulled  himself  up  to  the  edge  of  the  seat  and 
his  narrow  little  body  fairly  shivered  at  the  very 
idea. 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  Fielding  said.  "It's 
pretty  hard  during  the  winter  months,  especially  for 
a  girl  with  Fay's  spirits.  And  then  she  loves  to  be 


42  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

going  all  the  time.  The  only  fun  she  gets  is  skating 
and  tramping  through  the  pines.  Most  of  her  time 
Fay  spends  visiting  the  old  sick  people  in  the  vil- 
lage." 

"Awful,"  Lusk  signed,  "awful !  Just  think  it  over, 
Porter.  Take  your  time  and  try  to  see  both  sides. 
Besides,  imagine  what  fun  it  would  be  for  you  to 
have  her  in  town  and  to  be  able  to  take  her  about  and 
show  her  the  sights.  I  know  just  the  place  to  give 
her  a  start.  A  friend  of  mine,  Isador  Harberg,  has 
a  big  interest  in  a  musical  show  that  opens  in  New 
York  in  August,  and  they  expect  to  keep  it  in  town 
all  winter.  Even  if  they  should  go  on  the  road,  I 
could  take  Fay  out  and  put  her  in  something  else. 
Harberg  says  they  don't  begin  rehearsals  before  the 
first  of  July,  so  you  see  if  you  told  her  now  she 
would  have  plenty  of  time  to  think  it  over." 

Fielding  nodded. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "I  may  be  wrong.  I'll  speak 
to  her  about  it,  anyhow,  and  then  you  can  have  a  talk 
with  her  afterward." 

For  a  long  time  after  this  the  two  men  sat  silent 
while  the  car  purred  on  its  way  over  the  hard  smooth 
roads.  Curled  up  in  the  corner,  his  hands  clasped 
about  his  knees,  Lusk  smiled  at  the  excess  of  his  own 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  43 

enthusiasm.  This  love  of  gaining  his  own  ends  had 
always  been  an  obsession  with  him,  and  it  was  this 
same  indomitable  will  that  had  carried  him  to 
his  present  success  in  busines.  The  idea  of  taking 
this  country  beauty  to  New  York  and  dolling  her  up 
in  fine  plumage  had  at  first  appealed  to  him  as  an 
amusing  idea,  certainly  worth  the  giving  of  a  small 
position  in  his  office  to  Porter  Fielding.  Now  that 
there  seemed  to  be  some  possibility  of  opposition  on 
the  part  of  Fielding  himself  and  the  kindly  folk  who 
had  adopted  her,  the  fight  seemed  just  so  much  more 
worth  the  while. 

Like  most  of  his  class,  Max  Lusk  was  fond  of 
the  envy  of  the  people  of  his  own  world  of  bought  en 
pleasures.  He  saw  himself  leading  this  unknown 
girl  with  the  beautiful  color  and  the  wonderful 
red  hair  down  the  aisles  of  the  big  restaurants. 
She  would  be  better  dressed  than  any  woman  in 
the  place,  and  the  men  and  women  sitting  at  the 
tables  would  gasp  with  wonder  at  her  beauty  and 
want  tQ  know  where  Lusk  had  discovered  her.  He 
would  take  her  to  the  theater  and  sit  alone  with  her 
in  a  stage-box,  so  that  all  the  audience,  as  well  as  his 
friends  on  the  stage,  could  see  his  latest  conquest. 
And  later,  when  she  herself  appeared  on  the  stage, 


44 

more  beautiful  and  more  wonderful  than  any  of  the 
other  women  there,  then  he  would  sit  down  in  front, 
and  her  smiles  would  be  for  Max  Lusk  only,  and  he 
would  be  the  envy  of  all  of  the  other  men  in  the  the- 
ater. He  would  send  her  flowers,  big  bunches  of 
orchids,  to  be  worn  at  her  corsage,  or  beauty  roses 
with  very  long  stems,  which  she  would  carry  in  her 
arms,  and  every  night  one  of  his  automobiles  would 
meet  her  at  the  stage  door  and  whisk  her  off  to  sup- 
per with  him.  The  little  broker  smiled  complacently 
at  these  pictures  of  his  great  bounty  to  the  girl,  and 
in  every  picture  he  saw  Max  Lusk  shining  in  the  re- 
flected glory  of  her  brilliant  success. 

The  idea  of  Fay  coming  to  New  York  filled  Field- 
ing's mind  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other  thought. 
The  crucial  moment  of  the  girl's  life  was  at  hand, 
and  he  believed  that  he  alone  would  decide  the 
course  which  she  would  eventually  pursue.  After 
twenty  years  of  care  and  devotion  and  slaving,  he 
knew  that  the  Claytons'  wishes  in  the  matter  would 
avail  not  at  all  against  the  strong  independent  will  of 
their  adopted  child.  He  knew  that  he  and  he  alone 
had  heretofore  been  able  to  control  her.  From  her 
affection  for-  him,  or  an  absurd  belief  in  his  judg- 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  45 

ment  and  common  sense,  she  had  never  failed  to  fol- 
low his  advice,  but  the  present  situation  was  some- 
thing much  bigger  than  either  of  them  had  ever 
faced  before.  For  the  first  time  Fielding  recognized 
the  narrow  limitations  of  his  own  worldly  wisdom, 
and  that  he  was  facing  a  condition  that  he  was 
wholly  inadequate  to  combat.  His  knowledge  of 
New  York  and  the  life  which  Lusk  had  offered  as  an 
alternative  to  Fay's  uneventful  existence  in  the  coun- 
try was  absolutely  nil,  and  he  was  conscious  that  his 
opinions  and  advice  would  have  no  more  real  value 
than  so  many  empty  words.  He  had  set  himself  a 
task  which  he  now  regarded  with  the  keenest  regret, 
but  he  had  given  his  word  to  Lusk,  and  at  present  the 
latter  stood  sponsor  for  every  hope  of  the  fulfilling 
of  Fielding's  own  ambitions. 

It  was  at  Lusk's  suggestion  that  they  stopped  at 
the  Clayton  cottage  before  going  to  the  hotel,  and 
without  telling  Fay  why  he  wished  to  talk  to  her, 
Fielding  arranged  to  meet  her  late  that  afternoon  at 
the  landing  where  she  kept  her  sailboat. 

He  found  her  waiting  for  him,  sitting  in  the  stern 
of  the  boat,  the  sail  up  and  everything  ready.  Once 
away  from  the  pier,  he  took  a  seat  just  across  from 


46  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

where  she  sat  and  in  silence  they  watched  the  breeze 
fill  the  little  sail  and  heard  the  gentle  lapping  of  the 
tiny  waves  as  they  were  carried  toward  the  opposite 
shore  of  the  river. 

"Isn't  it  good,"she  said  at  last,  "to  be  alone,  just 
you  and  I,  drifting  along  in  the  same  old  lazy  way? 
Tell  me,  Porter,  has  it  helped,  or  has  New  York 
spoiled  you  for  this  sort  of  thing?" 

He  looked  at  her  bared  throat,  at  the  brown  strong 
arms  and  hands  grasping  the  tiller,  at  the  strands  of 
the  wonderful  hair  broken  loose  and  blown  across 
her  pretty  sunburned  face.  As  she  sat  there  smiling 
at  him  with  her  lips  and  eyes,  it  seemed  as  if  she 
were  an  essential  part  of  the  rippling  water,  the 
cloudless,  deep  blue  sky  and  the  distant  green  banks 
and  sandy  pebbled  beach.  It  did  not  seem  quite  pos- 
sible to  imagine  her  a  part  of  any  other  scene  just 
then. 

"Has  it  helped?"  he  repeated.  "Has  it  helped?  I 
don't  believe  I  ever  cared  for  the  old  place  before 
as  I  do  at  this  moment.  That's  what  makes  it  so 
hard  to  say  what  I've  got  to  say  to  you,  Fay." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  she  laughed.  "Go  ahead, 
Porter;  I'll  make  it  as  easy  as  I  can  for  you." 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  47 

"On  our  way  down  here,"  he  began,  "Lusk  and  I 
had  a  long  talk  about  you.  He  thinks  you  are  wast- 
ing your  life  at  Pleasantville.  Wants  you  to  go  to 
New  York  and  make  a  career  for  yourself." 

The  smile  suddenly  faded  from  the  girl's  face. 

"Did  Mr.  Lusk  tell  you  how  I  was  to  make  a  ca- 
reer?" 

"Yes ;  he  says  he  has  a  chance  for  you  to  go  on  the 
stage." 

"And  what  did  you  say  ?" 

Fielding  looked  up  at  Fay's  serious  eyes  and  then 
beyond  to  the  white  curving  beach  and  the  green 
banks. 

"I  only  said  that  I  would  tell  you.  I  thought  it 
best  that  I  should  speak  to  you  first.  That's  about  all 
I  could  say,  except  talking  over  your  position  here 
and  how  you  were  situated  with  the  Claytons.  But, 
of  course,  he  knew  all  that  as  well  as  I  did." 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  breeze,  and  for  a  moment 
Fay  turned  her  eyes  to  the  gently  flapping  sail  and 
then  back  to  Fielding. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  go,  Porter?"  she  asked. 

Fielding  looked  at  her  with  frank  surprise. 

".Why,  I  don't  know,  Fay.     It  never  really  oc- 


48  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

curred  to  me  that  you  would  give  the  idea  a  serious 
thought.  You  know  what  it  would  mean  to  those 
two  old  people.  If  they  thought  that  you — " 

"I  know  that,  Porter,"  she  interrupted,  "I  under- 
stand all  that,  but  I'm  not  thinking  of  them  now. 
The  time  has  come  when  I  have  to  think  of  my- 
self— every  man  and  every  woman  has  to  come  to 
it  sooner  or  later.  Much  as  I  love  them,  and  I  do 
really  love  them,  Porter,  I  know  that  they  can  only 
live  for  a  few  years,  and  then  what  is  going  to  be- 
come of  me  ?  It  might  be  too  late  for  me  to  make  a 
start  then." 

"And  Margaret  ?"  he  asked. 

"The  chances  are,"  Fay  hurried  on,  "that  Mar- 
garet will  marry  some  one  in  Pleasantville,  and  she 
will  probably  be  very  contented  and  very  happy.  I 
wish  I  could  be,  but  I  can't.  Tom  Nagle,  the  butch- 
er's boy,  asked  me  to  marry  him  last  spring,  and 
Billy  Carter,  who  works  over  at  the  hardware  shop, 
tried  his  best  to  propose  two  or  three  times,  but  I 
can't  marry  Tom  Nagle  or  Billy  Carter  and  spend 
the  rest  of  my  days  in  Pleasantville.  I  just  couldn't 
do  it.  You're  the  only  thing  that  kept  me  alive  here, 
and  now  you've  gone  away." 

Fielding  looked  at  her  and  nodded. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  49 

"I  understand,  of  course,"  he  said.  "I  suppose 
you've  -been  thinking  of  this  for  some  time." 

"No,  only  for  the  last  two  weeks.  Lusk  suggest- 
ed the  idea  to  me  as  a  joke,  and  it  sort  of  appealed 
to  me  as  a  way  out  of  my  troubles.  Then  you  went 
away,  and  I'll  tell  you  honestly,  Porter,  I've  missed 
you  terribly." 

Fielding  laid  his  hand  gently  over  Fay's  that 
rested  on  the  tiller.  The  breeze  died  away,  and 
the  boat  was  only  drifting. 

"Tell  me,  Fay,"  he  said,  "what  are  your  real 
troubles?" 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him  and  then  across  the  river 
to  the  great  scarlet  disk  of  fire  slowly  disappearing 
behind  the  high  green  banks. 

"Troubles,"  she  repeated,  "just  the  same  old  trou- 
bles. It's  not  so  easy  for  you  to  understand,  be- 
cause, even  if  they  are  gone,  you  had  a  father  once 
and  a  mother  and  a  certain  defined  position  in  the 
world.  I  have  nothing.  I  was  cast  up  on  the  beach 
down  there  by  the  Twin  Dunes,  with  a  lot  of  wreck- 
age. That  was  the  day  of  my  birth,  you  might  say. 
Perhaps  my  mother  was  a  princess,  as  Mother  Clay- 
ton and  some  of  these  folk  in  the  village  like  to  be- 
lieve she  was,  and  perhaps  she  wasn't.  What  kind 


50 

of  people  she  and  my  father  were,  we  can  only  judge 
by  their  daughter,  and  sometimes,  God  help  me,  Por- 
ter, I  almost  believe  that  they  were  not  very  good 
people." 

Fielding  drew  himself  up  very  straight  and  looked 
her  squarely  in  the  eyes. 

"There  are  times,  Fay,"  he  said,  "when  I  can't  un- 
derstand you — times  when  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean." 

There  was  a  puff  of  wind,  and  Fay  put  the  boat 
about  and  with  a  free  sail  pointed  toward  the  land- 
ing. 

"No,"  she  said  with  a  little  sigh  and  an  effort  to 
smile,  "I  know  that.  I  know  that  you  don't  un- 
derstand me  sometimes,  Porter.  It  would  be  very 
difficult  for  any  man  to  understand.  Because  if 
you  had  no  family  or  position  you  could  go  out 
and  fight  for  one,  but  it's  not  so  easy  for  a  girl  to 
do  that.  The  men  down  here  are  all  right  because 
they  think  I'm  pretty,  I  suppose,  but  the  women  say 
'Who  is  she?'  and  the  answer  is  that  I'm  a  foundling 
and  was  adopted  by  some  kind  natives.  They  might 
give  me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  and  take  it  for 
granted  that  my  people  were  at  least  nice  decent  peo- 
ple, but  they  don't.  They  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  51 

freak  or  something  worse.  I  tell  you,  Porter,  women 
aren't  naturally  kind  to  other  women.  Why,  there 
isn't  a  day  that  I  go  to  the  links  or  the  hotel  or 
to  a  dance  on  Saturday  nights  that  I  don't  have  to  be 
on  my  guard  every  minute.  The  women  speak  to 
me,  but  they  never  forget  that  the  only  mother  I  have 
does  their  washing  for  them.  If  I  were  an  out-and- 
out  native  it  would  be  better,  but  I'm  not.  I'm  some- 
thing that  floated  in  on  a  wreck — a  derelict. 

"Day  after  day  I've  gone  down  to  the  Twin 
Dunes,  and  do  you  think  that  ever  for  one  moment, 
when  I've  looked  at  the  place  where  they  found  me 
that  night,  that  I  was  thankful?  Not  once,  Porter. 
I'd  sit  there  and  look  at  the  waves,  and  all  they  ever 
seemed  to  say  to  me  was  that  line  from  Mark- 
heim:  'If  my  life  be  an  ill  thing,  I  can  lay  it 
down.'  That's  all  they  ever  said  to  me,  and  they've 
pounded  it  into  my  head  until  I  thought  I'd  go  mad. 
One  of  these  days  I'll — " 

"Don't  say  that,  Fay,"  Fielding  threw  back  at  her. 
"I  don't  think  that  you're  fair  to  yourself  or  to  the 
women.  You're  naturally  very  sensitive." 

"Sensitive,"  she  repeated.  "Of  course  I'm  sensi- 
tive. If  you  had  been  treated  as  I  have  been  by  these 
good  and  carefully  protected  wives  and  daughters 


52  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

you  would  be  sensitive,  too.  The  only  thing  I  can 
do  is  to  take  the  men  away  from  them,  and  I  like  to 
think  that  I'm  too  much  of  a  woman  to  stoop  that 
low.  I  tell  you,  Porter,  I'm  tired  of  it.  I'm  tired 
of  Pleasantville,  and  I'm  tired  of  the  people  who 
come  here,  and  I'm  tired  of  their  snubs,  and  the 
hypocrisy  of  their  charity,  and  if  Max  Lusk  or  any- 
body else  gives  me  a  chance  to  get  away  and  be  some- 
body on  my  own,  then  I'm  going  to  get  away,  and 
the  quicker  the  better." 

Fielding  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "All  right,  Fay," 
he  said,  "have  it  your  own  way.  I  wish  I  could  ad- 
vise you,  but  I  know  no  more  of  the  life  that  Lusk 
throws  out  to  you  than  you  do.  It's  up  to  you  to  de- 
cide." 

When  the  girl  spoke  again  it  was  almost  in  a  whis- 
per, and  her  voice,  as  well  as  her  manner,  was  very 
tense  and  hard. 

"I  know  that,"  she  said;  "I  know  it's  up  to  me. 
It's  been  up  to  me  ever  since  the  night  I  was  born 
down  there  on  the  beach,  and  now  I'm  going  to  take 
a  chance  to  get  out  into  the  world  and  do  something 
and  be  somebody.  I  know  I  oughtn't  to  leave  these 
old  people  and  Margaret,  but  I'm  going  to  be  selfish, 
Porter.  All  my  life  I've  kept  myself  down.  I've 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  53 

been  starved  in  this  place  and  all  the  time  something 
inside  of  me,  that  my  mother  put  there,  has  been 
crying  out  for  a  chance  in  the  big  world.  And  now 
if  it's  come  to  me,  so  help  me  God,  I'm  going  to  take 
that  chance." 

For  a  few  moments  they  sat  in  silence  while  the 
little  boat  drifted  toward  the  end  of  the  landing,  but 
in  that  short  time  Fay's  manner  underwent  a  com- 
plete and  wonderful  change.  She  turned  to  Fielding 
once  more,  her  old  calm  joyous  self. 

"Don't  worry  about  me,  Porter,"  she  laughed. 
"You'll  find  that  I'll  come  out  all  right,  and  don't 
you  forget  that  I'm  to  see  Lusk  before  he  goes 
back." 

That  all-important  interview,  perhaps  the  most 
important  in  the  life  of  Fay  Clayton,  took  place  the 
following  morning  on  the  beach  in  a  little  arbor  built 
of  pine  boughs  far  from  the  bathers  and  the  crowd 
of  onlookers.  For  an  hour  she  and  Lusk  sat  alone, 
and  this  time  it  was  the  man  who  did  the  talking,  and 
when  Lusk  was  sufficiently  interested  he  talked  ex- 
tremely well.  His  arguments  throughout  were  preju- 
diced and  unfair,  but  he  was  wise  enough  to  speak 
only  of  the  case  of  the  girl  who  regards  the  stage  in 
the  light  of  an  honorable  and  legitimate  profession, 


54  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

and  ignores  any  outside  means  of  adding  to  her  in- 
come. He  began  his  argument  by  admitting  that  a 
certain  amount  of  hardship  was  necessary  to  the  be- 
ginning of  any  career.  Of  this  phase  he  spoke  but  a 
few  words  and  then  hurried  on  to  tell  at  great  length 
of  the  rewards  that  were  sure  to  come  with  her 
success,  and  he  did  not  fail  to  paint  in  vivid  colors 
the  advantages  of  any  life  that  she  might  lead  in  the 
city  as  compared  to  her  present  dull  existence  in 
Pleasantville. 

Lusk  had  a  quick  clever  mind,  and  it  was  not 
difficult  for  him  to  answer  the  many  questions  she 
asked  him  or  to  make  light  of  the  obstacles  she 
most  feared.  But,  after  all,  it  was  not  the  adroit- 
ness of  the  broker's  mind  or  his  ready  speech  that 
finally  induced  the  girl  to  say  that  she  would  in  all 
probability  accept  his  offer.  Although  unconscious 
of  the  fact,  the  broker  had  really  won  his  first  battle 
with  Fay  the  day  before  when  Fielding  had  told  her 
that  Lusk  had  found  an  opening  for  her  on  the  stage 
and  a  chance  to  get  away  from  Pleasantville.  What- 
ever might  be  the  hardships  of  this  new  life,  at  least 
to  Fay  it  meant  independence  and  complete  freedom 
from  the  narrow  views  and  the  narrow  life  of  the 
kindly  people  who  had  brought  her  up.  It  meant, 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  55 

too,  that  she  would  be  near  Porter  Fielding,  the  one 
person  in  the  world  for  whom  she  really  cared,  and 
besides  all  this,  in  the  dim  distance,  she  saw  awaiting 
her  the  shimmering  crown  of  fame  as  a  reward  for 
her  hard  work  and  her  ambition  and  beauty  and  end- 
less endeavor. 

That  night  she  gave  the  two  men  her  definite 
answer  and  agreed  to  come  to  New  York  in  time 
to  begin  rehearsals  for  the  new  play.  It  was  ar- 
ranged that  on  the  all-important  day,  two  weeks 
hence,  she  would  go  to  town  with  Fielding  and 
Lusk  in  the  latter's  automobile,  but  as  she  did  not 
wish  to  tell  the  Claytons  of  her  decision  until  the 
very  last  moment,  it  was  further  agreed  that  no  one 
should  speak  of  the  matter,  at  least  in  Pleasantville. 
And  although  they  all  held  to  this  agreement,  never- 
theless each  of  them,  Fay  and  Fielding  and  Lusk, 
began  characteristically  to  prepare  for  the  girl's 
coming  to  New  York. 

On  the  Sunday  evening  before  the  morning  of  her 
departure,  Fielding  went  over  to  the  Clayton  cottage 
to  see  that  Fay  was  ready  for  the  trip.  As  he  strolled 
slowly  through  the  little  village  and  across  the  fields 
that  led  to  her  home,  the  place  had  never  seemed 
quite  so  beautiful  or  quite  so  much  like  a  home  to 


56  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

him  before.  For  a  moment  he  stopped  at  the  gate 
and  looked  long  at  the  little  shingled  cottage  made 
beautiful  by  age  and  so  many  tender  associations.  It 
came  to  him  fully  for  the  first  time  just  how  much 
every  stick  and  stone,  every  bush  and  every  flower- 
ing plant  in  the  little  garden,  meant  to  him,  for  in  a 
way  Fay's  home  had  always  been  his  home,  too,  and 
now,  in  his  heart,  he  knew  the  end  had  come.  She 
saw  him  from  the  window  of  her  room  and  ran 
down  the  path  to  greet  him. 

"I  knew  you'd  come,"  she  said.  "It  just  seemed 
as  if  you  would  have  to  come  to-night." 

She  held  out  both  her  hands,  and  he  took  them  in 
his,  and  when  they  had  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes  they  knew  that  they  had  but  one  thought. 

"Have  you  a  few  moments  to  spare?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "as  many  as  you  wish." 

They  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  garden,  and  with 
their  arms  resting  on  the  paling  fence,  looked  out  in 
silence  on  the  narrow  dusty  road  and  the  green 
meadows  and  beyond  to  the  pine  forests.  Through 
the  upper  branches  they  could  see  the  pearl  and  pink 
lights  of  the  dying  day — the  last  day  of  their  lazy, 
childish,  happy  dreams. 

"Have  you  told  them  ?"  he  asked. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  57 

"Yes,"  she  said  with  a  catch  in  her  voice;  "yes, 
I  told  them  a  little  while  ago." 

"Was  it  very  hard  ?" 

"Yes,  Porter,  it  was  very  hard.  Margaret  cried 
and  upbraided  me  for  not  telling  them  before ;  but 
what  was  the  use?  I  think  Father  Clayton  took  it 
hardest  of  all.  I  meant  so  much  to  him — and  I  sup- 
pose it  sort  of  hurt  his  pride.  He  asked  me  if  it  was 
for  good,  and  I  said  I  thought  that  it  was,  and  then 
he  put  his  arms  about  me  and  kissed  me  and  told  me 
that  whatever  happened,  and  whether  I  succeeded  or 
failed,  that  the  home  and  he  and  mother  would  al- 
ways be  waiting  for  me." 

"And  your  mother?"  Fielding  asked. 

"No,  mother  didn't  say  anything.  I  suppose  it  was 
the  idea  of  the  stage  that  hurt.  I  guess,  Porter, 
there's  only  one  thing  that  a  girl  could  tell  her  mother 
that  would  have  hurt  her  worse." 

"And  she  didn't  say  anything  about  your  coming 
back  home  to  visit,  or  if  you  wanted  to  come  to 
stay?" 

"No,  Porter.  She  just  sat  by  the  window,  rocking 
up  and  down,  with  her  hands  clasped,  and  staring  up 
at  the  ceiling.  I  tell  you  I  thought  I'd  go  mad,  and 
then  father  got  down  the  Bible  and  read  a  chapter 


58  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

about  being  saved  from  temptation.  That's  what 
they're  afraid  of,  and  that's  what  hurts  me  here  in 
my  heart  They  ought  to  believe  in  me  after  more 
than  twenty  years;  don't  you  think  so,  Porter?" 

The  girl  suddenly  dropped  her  face  in  her  arms 
and  broke  into  a  series  of  long  low  sobs. 

Fielding  put  put  his  hand  and  touched  her  gently 
on  the  shoulder. 

"It'll  all  come  right,  Fay,  dear,"  he  said.  "They're 
very  old,  and  they  don't  know  a  great  deal  about  the 
outside  world,  and  then  you  must  remember  that 
you've  been  so  very  much  in  their  lives.  So  very 
much — pretty  much  everything.  I  think  perhaps  I'd 
better  go  in  and  have  a  talk  with  them  now." 

Fay  looked  up  sharply,  her  eyes  filled  with  fear, 
and  with  both  hands  caught  Fielding  by  the  arm. 

"Don't,  please,  don't  do  that,"  she  begged,  "not 
now,  not  to-night.  They've  got  the  idea  that  your 
going  to  New  York  has  something  to  do  with  my  go- 
ing, too.  Don't  go  in  there,  now,  Porter,  please,  for 
my  sake.  I  couldn't  stand  another  scene  to-night.  I 
couldn't  do  it — I  just  couldn't." 

"Of  course,  of  course,  Fay,  dear,"  Fielding  said, 
"I  understand.  A  week  or  two  from  now  when 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  59 

they're  used  to  the  idea,  I'll  have  a  good  long  talk 
with  them  and  explain  what  it  really  means  for  you 
to  go  to  New  York  and  all  about  your  wonderful 
future." 

The  fear  had  gone  from  the  girl  as  quickly  as  it 
had  come,  and  putting  out  her  hands  she  rested 
them  on  his  shoulders  and  with  her  tear-stained  eyes 
looked  into  his. 

"Porter,"  she  said,  "there's  something  else.  I 
want  you  to  make  me  a  promise." 

Fielding  could  not  trust  himself  to  look  into  her 
face  just  then,  and  so  he  continued  to  stare  beyond 
the  meadows  at  the  distant  pines. 

"It's  granted  now,"  he  said.  "You  must  know 
that." 

"It's  really  not  very  much.  But,  whatever  hap- 
pens, I  want  you  to  promise  that  if  I  should  ever  ask 
you  that  you  will  bring  me  back  here  some  day." 

Fielding  nodded,  and  they  started  slowly  across 
the  garden  toward  the  house. 

"Of  course,  Fay,"  he  said,  "but  we  are  to  come 
back  many,  many  times  together.  This  must  always 
be  our  real  home.  It  couldn't  very  well  be  other- 
wise— could  it  ?" 


60  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

She  pressed  his  hand  hard  in  hers. 

"I  hope  so,"  she  whispered.  "You  don't  know 
how  very  much  I  hope  so,  Porter,  but  we  can't  al- 
ways tell.  Can  we,  dear  ?" 


CHAPTER  III 

AL  the  plans  for  Fay  Clayton's  coming  to 
New  York  had  been  made  in  advance  by  Max 
Lusk.  Rather  than  have  her  go  to  a  hotel  or  a  regu- 
lar boarding-house,  he  had  arranged  to  have  her  live 
with  an  old  friend,  Mrs.  Amelia  Yorke,  who  had  not 
only  formerly  been  on  the  stage  herself,  but  had  a 
daughter  who  was  a  chorus  girl  and  for  this  reason, 
as  well  as  from  her  own  personal  inclinations,  had 
always  remained  in  close  touch  with  the  theater  and 
its  people.  In  many  ways  the  arrangement  seemed, 
at  least  for  the  moment,  to  be  one  of  mutual  benefit. 
On  the  one  hand,  Fay,  while  enjoying  the  home  life 
of  the  Yorke  flat,  would  have  at  the  very  outset  of 
her  stage  life  the  expert  knowledge  of  a  theatrical 
family,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Yorkes  being  in  a 
chronic  state  of  bankruptcy,  the  ten  dollars  a  week 
which  Fay  was  to  pay  for  her  board  and  lodging 
would  be  of  the  greatest  possible  financial  assistance 
to  them.  Indeed,  beyond  the  the  twenty  dollars  that 
Doris  Yorke  received  every  week  as  a  member  of 

61 


62  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

the  Casino  chorus,  the  family  was  quite  without  any 
visible  means  of  support. 

Mrs.  Yorke  was  by  the  way  of  being  a  widow, 
although  she  personally  had  a  most  sincere,  and 
probably  correct  belief  in  the  theory  that  Mr.  Yorke 
was  still  among  the  living.  Several  years  previous 
and  at  one  of  those  almost  perpetual  periods  when 
the  Yorkes  were  violently  discussing  a  legal  separa- 
tion, a  terrible  catastrophe  had  visited  the  heart  of 
New  York's  business  district.  Fire  had  broken  out 
in  an  old  building,  the  upper  stories  of  which  were 
occupied  by  a  job  printing  concern.  Almost  without 
warning  the  massive  presses  had  crashed  through  the 
intervening  floors  and  crushed  the  life  out  of  fifty 
unfortunate  souls  who  were  at  lunch  in  a  restaurant 
in  the  basement.  It  so  happened  that  Mr.  Yorke  oc- 
casionally took  his  lunch  here,  but  whether  he  was 
present  on  this  tragic  occasion  was  never  really 
known.  His  body  may  have  been  among  the  fifty 
charred  and  unrecognizable  remains  taken  from  the 
cellar ;  or  it  may  have  been  that  he  only  wished  it  to 
appear  so,  and  regarding  the  occasion  as  a  marvelous 
opportunity  to  escape  from  Mrs.  Yorke  or  possible 
years  of  alimony,  had  promptly  flown  to  parts  un- 
known. It  was  to  the  latter  belief  that  Mrs.  Yorke 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  63 

always  held,  and  the  arrival  of  a  telegram  invariably 
sent  her  into  a  paroxysm  of  anxiety  as  to  whether 
she  was  or  was  not  a  bona  fide  widow. 

Although  Mrs.  Yorke  was  beyond  dispute  the 
strongest  individual  power,  the  real  head  of  the 
household,  at  least  in  point  of  years,  was  Mr.  Hook- 
er, father  of  Mrs.  Yorke.  He  was  a  patriarchal  old 
gentleman  with  a  self- fancied  resemblance  to  Noah, 
a  mild  species  pf  vanity  he  had  carefully  cultivated 
and  to  which  he  constantly  referred  in  his  occasional 
rambling  conversation.  Although  known  as  Pop  at 
the  Yorke  flat,  and  by  the  small  shopkeepers  in  the 
neighborhood  where  the  family  dealt,  he  had  for- 
merly borne  the  much  more  distinguished  title  of 
The  Great  Mozark,  the  Magical  Medical  Man.  For 
more  than  thirty  years  he  had  traveled  through  the 
Middle  West  at  the  head  of  his  own  medicine  show, 
and  there  were  still  extant  in  that  district  rumors  of 
his  marvelous  cures,  and  of  the  ample  fortune  that 
he  had  accumulated  therefrom. 

There  were  also  well  authenticated  tales  of  a 
beautiful  but  unscrupulous  young  woman  from 
Chicago  who,  having  heard  of  the  old  man's 
savings,  had  joined  the  medicine  show  with  the 
ostentatious  purpose  of  singing  coon  ballads,  but 


64  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

with  the  real  and  more  selfish  intention  of  taking 
away  his  fortune.  Exactly  what  did  happen  the 
Great  Mozark  himself  never  told,  but  it  is  a  mat- 
ter of  history  that  one  day  the  old  man  turned  up  at 
the  Yorke  flat  quite  penniless  and  had  ever  since  re- 
mained its  most  permanent  fixture.  Dressed  in  a 
frock  coat,  a  pair  of  trousers  of  a  conspicuous  plaid 
pattern  (a  remnant  of  his  former  greatness),  a 
white  shirt  with  a  heavily  starched  bosom  but  no  col- 
lar, he  spent  his  days  in  a  rocking-chair  looking  out 
of  the  window  and  smoking  a  huge  meerschaum 
pipe.  He  spoke  but  seldom  and  then  usually  during 
the  meals,  when  he  whined  in  bitter  complaint 
against  the  food  that  was  set  before  him. 

Another  member  of  the  household  was  Miss 
Angie  Clubb,  a  niece  of  Mrs.  Yorke  and  a  pretty 
blond  creature  with  a  very  pink  and  white  coloring 
and  what  might  be  described  as  a  plump  Viennese 
figure.  Miss  Clubb  was  a  very  dull  and  pleasant 
soul,  but  with  no  apparent  ambition  in  life  except  to 
wear  good  clothes,  eat  better  food  than  she  could 
possibly  get  at  home,  and  avoid  anything  that  sug- 
gested work  or  activity  of  any  kind.  At  regular  in- 
tervals she  would  accompany  Doris  Yorke  to  the 
various  theatrical  managers'  offices  in  search  of  em- 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  65 

ployment,  but  these  visits  had  as  yet  never  been  at- 
tended with  any  practical  results.  Doris  Yorke,  the 
chorus  girl,  completed  the  family  circle,  and  probably 
owing  to  the  fact  that  she  was  its  only  wage-earner 
was,  at  least  as  far  as  the  household  itself  was  con- 
cerned, by  far  its  most  unpopular  member.  As  Mrs. 
Yorke  could  not  afford  a  servant  it  became  the  duty 
of  Doris  to  clean  the  house,  make  the  beds  and  assist 
her  mother  with  the  cooking.  Combined  with  her 
stage  work  it  was  a  most  unhappy  and  irksome  exist- 
ence, but  with  the  exception  of  a  few  months  which 
she  had  spent  on  the  road  with  traveling  companies, 
it  was  the  only  life  that  she  had  ever  known. 

When  it  was  announced  that  a  boarder  in  the  per- 
son of  Fay  Clayton  was  to  join  the  family  circle, 
it  can  not  in  truth  be  said  that  Doris  received  the 
news  with  any  particular  degree  of  enthusiasm.  To 
her  it  meant  only  another  room  to  clean,  one  more 
to  cook  for?  and,  in  all  probability,  less  to  eat  for 
herself.  But  somewhat  to  the  consternation  of  Mrs. 
Yorke,  and  especially  to  Angie  Clubb,  Fay  insisted 
from  the  outset  on  taking  care  of  her  own  room, 
even  helping  in  the  kitchen  and  on  making  herself 
generally  useful  about  the  house. 

In  less  than  twenty-four  hours  after  Lusk  had  in- 


66  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

troduced  her  to  the  Yorke  flat  she  had  settled  down 
as  a  full-fledged  member  of  the  family,  and  indeed 
her  presence  seemed  to  facilitate  rather  than  to  clog 
the  machinery  of  the  household.  She  was  always 
laughing  and  eager  to  work  for  others,  and  ex- 
cept in  the  case  of  Doris,  the  desire  to  help  any 
one  to  anything  in  the  Yorke  menage  was  an  unu 
known  or  certainly  unpractised  virtue.  Even  old 
Mr.  Hooker,  when  Fay  made  her  first  appearance, 
had  found  time  to  stop  rocking  and  smile  at  her  -be- 
nignly over  the  rims  of  his  spectacles.  And  when 
she  had  left  the  room  he  crossed  his  arms,  sighed 
dolorously  and  from  the  depths  of  his  memory  re- 
called a  quotation  which  he  repeated  dully  several 
times  to  the  stiff  lace  curtains  of  the  window. 

"  'A  woman  clothed  in  sunshine — a  woman 
clothed  in  sunshine.' ' 

Between  Fay  and  Doris  there  at  once  sprang  up 
a  strong  intimacy.  Fay  liked  the  tawny-haired  lit- 
tle chorus  girl  because  she  was  so  honest  and  sincere, 
and  later,  when  she  really  learned  the  strength  of 
the  girl's  character,  her  liking  developed  into  the 
most  sincere  affection  and  admiration.  But  to  her 
great  regret  Fay  soon  discovered  that  Doris  was 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  67 

something1  of  a  freak  of  nature  and  that  her  admir- 
able and  altogether  lovable  traits  were  in  nowise 
shared  by  the  other  members  of  her  family.  After 
her  years  pf  ease,  if  not  of  luxury,  with  the  simple 
Claytons  at  Pleasantville  there  was  much  in  the  life 
of  the  Yorke  family  that  did  not  appeal  very  strong- 
ly to  the  new  boarder.  Every  member  of  the  house- 
hold was  in  chronic  need  of  money  and  discussed 
but  little  else.  Mrs.  Yorke  and  Miss  Clubb  con- 
stantly deplored  their  lack  of  suitable  raiment,  and 
the  old  man  was  forever  whining  about  the  quality 
of  the  food  and  the  lack  of  tobacco  which,  with  a 
copy  of  a  morning  and  evening  newspaper,  consti- 
tuted his  only  needs.  And  then  there  was  that 
prince  of  betes  nolres,  the  landlord,  demanding  his 
rent,  which  was  always  in  arrears,  and  those  two 
other  monthly  horrors,  the  gas  and  the  telephone 
bills.  The  latter  was  the  subject  of  the  most  violent 
discussions  because  it  was  regarded  by  every  one, 
with  the  exception  of  Miss  Clubb,  as  the  most  self- 
ish and  unnecessary  of  luxuries.  She,  however,  con- 
tended with  much  spirit,  and  not  without  a  consid- 
erable degree  of  truth,  that  if  it  were  not  for  the 
telephone  no  one  would  ever  ask  her  out  to  dinner. 


68  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

It  was  but  a  few  days  after  Fay's  arrival,  and  the 
family  were  seated  about  the  table  after  the  usual 
modest  luncheon.  Mrs.  Yorke  pushed  her  heavy 
body  back  into  her  chair,  and  having  blown  several 
rings  of  smoke  from  her  cigarette  at  the  mosquito- 
covered  chandelier,  once  more  renewed  her  cam- 
paign against  the  telephone. 

"Mind  you,  Angie,  dear,"  she  said  with  a  certain 
tone  of  mock  humility  in  her  deep  sonorous  voice, 
"I  don't  want  to  spoil  your  fun,  and  I  know  we  live 
too  far  up-town  for  your  gentlemen  friends  to  call 
on  you  or  even  pay  a  messenger  to  bring  you  an 
invitation.  The  telephone  was  surely  invented  for 
gentlemen  who  are  in  unexpected  and  immediate 
need  of  a  good-looking  girl  for  dinner  or  a  supper- 
party,  but  I  ask  you,  Angie,  dear,  what  good  does 
it  do  the  rest  of  us?  Once  in  a  great  while  some- 
body calls  up  Doris,  but  she  usually  gets  her  notes 
down-town  at  the  theater.  But  where  do  Pop  and  I 
come  in,  is  what  I  want  to  know?  Now,  if  you  ever 
brought  anything  home  from  your  swell  dinners 
and  your  gay  supper-parties  it  would  be  all  right, 
but  you  don't,  Angie.  You  know  you  don't.  Some- 
times, maybe,  a  fan  the  head  waiter  gave  you  at  the 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  69 

restaurant,  pr  a  souvenir  doll.  But  what  good's  a 
doll  in  a  pink  paper  skirt  or  a  cheap  fan  with  a 
restaurant  advertisement  on  it  to  me  or  Pop?  You 
might  -bring  us  a  bottle  of  wine  once  in  a  while." 

Miss  Clubb  flushed  and  glared  angrily  at  her 
aunt  across  the  table.  "I'm  no  chorus  girl  grafter," 
she  complained.  "My  gentlemen  friends  ain't  ac- 
customed to  give  girls  a  quart  to  take  home  to  their 
folks.  They're  not  that  kind." 

Mrs.  Yorke  puffed  up  like  a  great  pouter  pigeon 
and  stared  fiercely  into  the  girl's  eyes.  "That's 
right,  Angie,  you  ain't  no  wine  grafter.  I  can  see 
that,  unless  it  happens  that  you  and  your  refined 
gentlemen  friends  drink  it  yourselves  on  the  way 
home  in  the  cab,  but  I  notice  you  ain't  above  work- 
ing your  friends  for  a  new  hat,  or  a  pair  of  gloves, 
and  I  suppose  it  was  you  who  knit  those  scarlet  silk 
stockings  you  brought  home  the  other  afternoon. 
You're  so  industrious  with  your  needle,  you  are, 
Angie.  I  don't  think." 

Tears  gathered  in  the  pale  blue  eyes  and  coursed 
in  two  little  rivulets  down  Angie's  heavily  powdered 
cheeks.  Lacking  a  handkerchief,  she  pressed  a  much 
used  napkin  to  her  face  and  the  flow  of  tears  was 
temporarily  stopped.  With  a  few  inarticulate 


70  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

sounds  of  disgust  old  man  Hooker  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  retired  to  his  seat  at  the  window. 

Miss  Clubb  turned  her  damp  eyes  to  those  of  Fay, 
who  was  not  yet  immune  to  these  family  squabbles 
and  was  regarding  her  with  a  sympathetic  interest 

"It's  pretty  hard,  Miss  Clayton,"  she  said  with  a 
distinct  tremor  in  her  voice.  "I  tell  you  it's  pretty 
hard  to  be  put  upon  by  your  own  aunt,  especially 
when  your  folks  are  dead,  and  you  haven't  got  no 
home  of  your  own,  and  all  just  because  you  won't 
bring  a  quart  or  the  cold  leavings  from  a  supper- 
party  home  to  the  flat.  Heaven  knows  I've  been 
tramping  the  streets  and  visiting  managers  no  end 
looking  for  work." 

Mrs.  Yorke  sniffed  audibly  and  with  a  dexterous 
movement  of  her  thumb  and  finger  flipped  her  cig- 
arette end  into  the  empty  hearth. 

"It's  a  pity  about  you,  Angie ;  it  sure  is  a  pity  the 
way  you  wear  yourself  out  looking  for  work !  And 
those  managers'  stairs  are  so  steep  and  the  wait- 
ing-rooms that  dusty !" 

Once  more  Angie  showed  the  preliminary  signs 
of  the  flood  of  tears  that  seemed  forever  ready 
to  overflow  her  pretty  eyes.  "It's  not  the  stairs  and 
the  dirty  offices  that's  the  trouble,"  she  sobbed; 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  71 

"it's  that  gray  cloth  dress  and  the  hat  with  the  blue 
feathers.  I've  worn  it  in  summer  and  winter  until 
they're  all  sick  of  it.  Even  the  office  boys  beat  it 
now  when  they  catch  sight  of  those  blue  plumes." 

Doris  Yorke  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table  and 
rested  her  chin  between  her  palms.  "Why  don't 
you  try  for  this  show  Fay's  in?  If — " 

"That's  funny,  kid,"  Mrs.  Yorke  interrupted, 
"that's  what  I  call  good  cheap  comedy.  Why,  Rosie 
Lament's  going  with  it,  and  she  told  me  the  other 
day  that  they  had  the  greatest  bunch  of  show-girls 
ever  seen  on  Broadway.  Angie'd  have  a  great 
chance  for  a  job  with  that  crowd — not!" 

Doris  looked  calmly  at  her  mother's  excited  per- 
spiring face  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know !  They're  not  so  much ;  just  a 
lot  of  old  established  failures.  I  should  think  the 
managers  would  be  glad  to  get  a  new  face  once  in  a 
while.  I'll  go  in  with  you  to  see  Morley  to-morrow 
morning,  Angie,  that  is,  if  you're  game.  It's  a  good 
engagement — a  week  or  two  on  the  road  and  then 
Broadway  for  a  long  run.  Think  it  over." 

Further  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  ring 
of  the  telephone  bell.  Doris  answered  it,  but  an- 
nounced that  the  call  was  for  Angie.  Before  the 


72  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

latter  had  reached  the  telephone  the  gloom  that  had 
filled  the  little  dining-room  had  been  dispelled  and 
now  there  was  an  air  of  cheerful  expectancy. 

"Sure,  I  will,"  Angie  cooed  through  the  telephone. 
"I  thought  you'd  forgot  all  about  me.  I'll  be  ready 
in  ten  minutes.  Just  ring  the  bell  in  the  hallway 
and  I'll  come  right  down.  By-by." 

"Who  is  it?"  gasped  Mrs.  Yorke,  her  round  shin- 
ing face  fairly  exuding  hilarious  excitement.  Angie 
started  on  a  run  for  her  bedroom. 

"It's  a  John  I  met  at  supper  last  week,"  she  threw 
over  her  shoulder.  "He's  coming  up  with  his  car." 

"Good,  good  for  you,  Angie!"  Mrs.  York  called. 
"He  ought  to  be  good  for  the  telephone  bill,  any- 
how." She  bustled  out  of  the  room  in  pursuit  of 
the  fortunate  Angie,  and  Fay  and  Doris  were  left 
alone. 

Doris  went  over  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
on  the  narrow  court  of  dull  yellow  brick  walls  and 
rusty  iron  fire-escapes.  For  a  moment  she  beat  a 
tattoo  with  her  knuckles  on  the  soiled  window-pane 
and  then  spoke  without  looking  around.  "I'm  sor- 
ry," she  said,  "very  sorry,  Fay." 

Fay  looked  up  from  her  seat  at  the  table  in  sur- 
prise. 


73 

"Sorry?"  she  repeated;  "sorry  about  what?  That 
Angie  is  going  out  for  a  ride?" 

"No,  about  the  row.  But  I  suppose  you  had  to 
get  used  to  it  sooner  or  later.  It's  always  that  way, 
fighting  and  quarreling  and  bickering  over  who'll 
pay  for  this  and  who'll  pay  for  that,  and  how  they'll 
divide  my  salary.  Take  my  advice,  and  when  you 
begin  to  get  your  wages  don't  loan  'em  anything,  be- 
cause you'll  never  get  it  back." 

Fay  laughed.  "Don't  you  worry  about  that,"  she 
said,  "I'll  need  it  all  myself.  I'm  beginning  to  find 
out  already  what  a  lot  it  costs  to  live  on  in  this 
town." 

Doris  turned  and  looked  Fay  evenly  in  the  eyes. 

"No,  you  don't,  Fay.  You'll  never  know  till  you're 
in  debt.  That's  when  you'll  appreciate  it.  When 
the  men  you  thought  were  your  friends  are  chasing 
you  like  a  lot  of  hungry  wolves,  and  your  own 
mother  is  begging  you  to  ask  money  from  a  lot  of 
college  boys  to  pay  the  rent."  She  folded  her  arms 
over  her  flat  chest  and  turned  back  toward  the  win- 
dow. "Oh,  God,"  she  whispered,  "how  I  hate  it 
all!  I  tell  you  it's  awful.  The  degradation  of  it 
and  the  everlasting  cry  of  those  two  women  in  there 
for  money,  always  money  and  at  any  price." 


74  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

The  girl  suddenly  put  her  arms  before  her  on  the 
window-frame  and  sobbed  aloud.  Fay  went  over 
to  her  and  laid  her  hands  gently  on  Doris'  shoul- 
ders. "After  all,"  she  said,  "she  is  your  mother." 

"I  know,"  the  girl  sobbed  softly;  "I  know,  but 
sometimes  it's  so  hard  not  to  forget  that.  One  of 
these  days  I'm  afraid  I'll  tell  her  just  what  kind  of 
a  mother  I  think  she  has  been  to  me,  and  then  that 
would  mean  the  end  of  the  only  home  I've  got." 

The  bell  that  connected  with  the  street  vestibule 
rang  shrilly  through  the  apartment,  and  from  across 
the  hallway  they  heard  the  door  of  Angie's  bed- 
room closed  with  a  slam,  and  the  rustle  of  her  dress 
as  she  hurried  out  on  her  way  to  keep  her  appoint- 
ment. 

"Don't  forget  the  telephone  bill,"  Mrs.  Yorke 
called  after  her,  "and  if  you  only  could  get  enough 
to  pay  that  night  dentist  for  fixing  Pop's  teeth !  And, 
Angie,  dear,  there's  always  the  rent." 

Doris  turned  from  the  window,  and  as  she  looked 
at  Fay,  she  tried  to  force  a  smile  into  her  tear- 
stained  eyes. 

"Mother's  right,"  she  said,  "there's  always  the 
rent." 

It  had  never  occurred  to  Fay  that  her  life  at  the 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  75 

Yorke  flat  was  anything  more  than  one  of  the  un- 
happy steps  she  must  take  in  order  to  reach  the 
goal  of  a  successful  actress.  Had  she  believed  for 
one  moment  that  her  present  unpleasant  surround- 
ings were  to  last  for  more  than  the  -briefest  period 
she  would  have  returned  at  once  to  the  home  that 
she  believed  was  still  open  to  her  at  Pleasantville. 

During  the  few  days  that  she  had  been  with  the 
Yorke  family  its  members,  except  on  the  occasion 
of  the  outbreak  concerning  the  telephone,  had  re- 
frained from  any  of  the  usual  exhibitions  of  open 
warfare,  and  had  done  their  best  to  make  it  as  com- 
fortable and  as  pleasant  as  possible  for  the  new 
boarder.  But  in  spite  of  this  momentary  effort  Fay 
was  always  conscious  of  the  dull  sordid  life  of  the 
people  among  whom  she  had  been  thrown,  their 
lack  of  any  real  interests,  and  with  the  exception  of 
Doris,  a  total  abhorrence  for  every  kind  of  work, 
and  a  constant  effort  to  hide  the  abject  poverty  in 
which  they  lived  out  their  miserable  useless  exist- 
ences. Added  to  these  unhappy  traits  there  was,  es- 
pecially on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Yorke  and  Angie,  the 
always  present  desire  for  amusement,  however 
cheap  and  vulgar  it  might  be,  and  a  constant  vigi- 
lance to  seize  any  opportunity  to  extract  anything 


76  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

in  the  way  of  food  or  clothes  or  money  from  any 
one  on  whom  they  could  lay  their  greedy  hands. 

During  the  week  that  intervened  between  her  de- 
parture from  Pleasantville  and  the  day  that  her  re- 
hearsals were  to  begin,  Fay  spent  most  of  her  after- 
noons and  all  of  her  evenings  with  Porter  Fielding. 
It  was  not  only  a  welcome  relief  to  her  to  get  away 
from  the  Yorke  flat  and  the  family's  troubles,  but  it 
was  a  great  pleasure,  as  it  had  always  been  with  Fay, 
to  be  alone  with  Porter.  Now  she  was  getting  her 
first  glimpses  of  New  York  through  his  eyes,  and 
although  he  was  almost  as  ignorant  of  the  city  and 
its  ways  as  she  was,  Fay  refused  to  see  this  and 
chose  to  regard  him  as  a  thoroughly  knowing  guide 
and  mentor. 

As  is  usual  in  July,  the  city  was  at  its  worst,  the 
streets  seemed  all  torn  up  and  the  buildings  all  torn 
down,  or  in  a  state  of  chaotic  construction.  The 
pavements  were  baked  with  the  dry  heat  of  a  long 
summer,  the  air  was  lifeless,  and  the  whole  town 
foul  with  dirt  and  plaster  dust.  But  the  scorched 
city,  and  the  unfortunate  remnants  of  its  perspir- 
ing people  who  could  not  get  away,  and  who 
wandered  slowly  about  gasping  for  breath,  did  not 
worry  Fay  and  Porter  at  all.  Their  hearts  were  very 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  77 

light  and  above  all  they  had  youth.  Their  strong 
healthy  bodies  had  been  rilled  for  many  months  with 
the  fresh  pure  air  of  the  open  country  and  besides 
that  they  were  both  secure  in  the  belief  that  they 
were  at  the  door-step  of  a  wonderful  new  life  which 
was  to  be  crowded  with  happiness  and  crowned  with 
great  success.  That  the  emoluments  which  were  to 
be  a  natural  accompaniment  to  this  success  were  still 
far  distant  and  that  their  present  poverty  confined 
their  amusements  to  the  most  simple  of  pleasures, 
was,  to  their  youthful  spirits,  of  the  least  possible 
consequence. 

In  the  late  afternoons  they  rode  on  the  Fifth 
Avenue  omnibuses  or  took  long  leisurely  walks 
through  the  Park,  where  they  fed  the  squir- 
rels and  enjoyed  innumerable  trips  in  the  swan- 
boats.  Always  at  six  o'clock  they  separated,  and 
Fay  returned  to  the  Yorke  flat  to  put  on  one  of  her 
best  shirt-waists  and  a  fresh  duck  skirt  and  other- 
wise prepare  for  the  more  formal  pleasures  of  the 
evening.  By  seven,  much  to  the  envy  of  Mrs.  Yorke 
and  Angie,  she  was  off  again  and  on  her  way  to  join 
Porter  at  his  rooms  on  West  Thirty-first  Street.  It 
was  a  pretty  little  apartment  that  he  had  taken, 
very  small  and  very  cheap,  but  if  the  curtains  and 


78  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

the  furniture  of  scarlet  brocade  were  a  trifle  faded 
and  frayed  they  had  once  been  of  the  best  and  bore 
a  distinct  air  of  decayed  aristocracy.  There  was  a 
little  square  sitting-room  with  two  windows,  and  an 
alcove  bedroom  with  one  window,  and  a  tiny  bath- 
room with  no  window  at  all.  In  fact  the  bathroom 
bore  all  the  evidences  of  having  been,  in  the  days 
when  the  original  owners  occupied  the  entire  house, 
either  a  closet  or  a  clothes-press.  The  walls  of  the 
sitting-room  were  covered  with  a  very  ancient  if 
correct  example  of  a  flowered  white  colonial  paper, 
but  to  offset  the  general  tone  of  cold  severity  Porter 
had  tacked  up  innumerable  photographs.  These 
were  of  Fay,  taken  on  the  tennis-courts  at  Pleasant- 
ville,  and  in  her  bathing-suit  on  the  beach;  and  of 
himself  playing  golf ;  and  of  both  of  them  in  a  canoe, 
or  posing  on  a  lawn,  or  on  a  bench  at  the  river's 
edge.  For  two  young  people,  not  too  knowing  or  fas- 
tidious in  their  artistic  tastes,  but  overflowing  with 
the  joy  of  living  and  a  great  affection  for  each  other, 
it  was  a  most  cozy  and  cheerful  little  room,  full  of 
reminiscences  of  the  happy  past,  and  an  excellent 
place  to  chat  and  dream  foolish  impossible  dreams 
of  a  splendid  future. 

Their  favorite  dining  place  was  Guffanti's,  where 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  79 

they  had  noodle  soup  and  macaroni  au  jus  and 
which  they  enjoyed  out  of  all  proportion  to  its 
seasonableness.  They  usually  sat  long  over  their 
coffee,  while  Porter  smoked  his  cigar  and  talked 
of  his  day  down-town  at  the  office,  or  Fay  dis- 
cussed the  Yorke  family  and  their  frantic  efforts 
to  escape  a  complete  financial  collapse.  Twice  they 
went  to  vaudeville  performances  and  once  to  see 
The  Follies  at  the  New  York  Roof  Garden,  but 
on  the  other  nights  they  had  returned  to  Porter's 
rooms,  which  were  cooler  and  proved  a  much  less 
expensive  form  of  entertainment  than  the  theater. 

Only  twice  had  Fay  seen  Max  Lusk  since  she  had 
come  to  New  York.  Once  he  had  called  at  the  Yorke 
flat,  where  he  had  been  received  with  open  arms  and 
a  most  flattering  enthusiasm  by  the  entire  family. 
He  came  like  a  fairy  prince  in  a  huge  canary  yellow 
touring1  car,  and  which  was  greeted  by  the  children 
of  the  neighborhood  with  as  much  acclaim  as  if  it 
had  been  the  golden  band  wagon  of  a  circus  parade. 
He  also  came  laden  with  many  gifts — a  bottle  of  old 
rye  for  Mr.  Hooker,  a  large  tin  box  of  cigarettes 
for  Mrs.  Yorke,  white  leather  belts  for  Angie  and 
Doris,  and,  as  if  by  way  of  contrast  to  these  prac- 
tical offerings,  a  great  bunch  of  roses  for  Fay.  Hav- 


8o  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

ing  distributed  his  gifts  with  a  truly  Santa  Clans 
manner,  he  proceeded  to  make  himself  a  most  genial 
if  somewhat  boisterous  guest.  Acceding  to  Mrs. 
Yorke's  urgent  requests,  he  relieved  himself  of  his 
coat,  and  accepting  the  largest  chair,  put  his  feet  on 
another  and  proceeded  with  great  relish  to  smoke 
one  of  his  own  good  cigars,  and  cool  his  perspiring 
face  with  a  palm-leaf  fan. 

"Nothing  like  a  glimpse  of  family  life,"  he  said 
with  a  chuckle,  "nothing  like  it  after  a  hard  hot  day 
on  the  Street.  I  was  just  on  my  way  to  the  Polo 
Grounds  and  thought  I'd  drop  in  to  see  how  you 
were  all  getting  on."  He  turned  to  Fay  and  his  eyes 
fairly  blinked  at  her  cool  perfect  beauty.  "Miss 
Clayton,"  he  ran  on,  "you  fit  into  the  family  circle 
here  like  the  clasp  of  a  real  pearl  necklace.  So  much 
better  than  if  you  were  in  a  boarding-house,  I  can 
tell  you.  Here's  Mother  Yorke,  and  Doris,  and 
Angie  to  look  after  you;  and  what  more  could  any 
one  ask  for?  I  envy  you,  my  dear.  Indeed,  I  do. 
I  envy  you." 

With  a  smirk  he  looked  coyly  at  Angie  and  shook 
his  finger  at  her.  "I  caught  you  at  Woodsmaston 
the  other  night,  little  girl,  hiding  at  that  table  in  the 
corner  with  a  married  man.  Naughty,  naughty 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  81 

Angle!  But  I  don't  blame  you,  kid,  he's  one  of  the 
few  who  can  afford  a  wife  and  a  good  car,  too." 

"He's  a  very  fine  gentleman,"  Miss  Clubb  volun- 
teered, "and  he  hardly  ever  takes  a  girl  out  that  he 
don't  make  her  a  handsome  little  present.  'Souve- 
nirs of  a  happy  dinner'  he  calls  'em  in  his  notes.  He 
writes  such  beautiful  notes,  on  the  loveliest  gray 
paper  with  a  gold  crest,  and  his  presents  are  all  such 
practical  things.  Stockings  and  gloves  and  hand- 
kerchiefs— you  know — no  cheap  junk  or  candy  or  a 
chorus  girl's  bouquet." 

"What's  a  chorus  girl's  bouquet?"  Doris  inter- 
rupted with  some  warmth  of  feeling. 

"It's  one  orchid,"  Angie  ran  on  placidly,  "com- 
pletely surrounded  by  a  garden  of  cheap  green  stuff. 
I  think  it's  an  awful  thing,  Mr.  Lusk,  to  see  a  girl 
sitting  up  with  some  moneyed  gink  in  a  swell  res- 
taurant with  a  bunch  of  orchids  at  her  waist,  both 
of  them  eating  caviar,  and  all  the  time  she's  starv- 
ing for  a  veal  stew,  or  a  porterhouse  steak,  sprin- 
kled with  good  English  chops.  And  as  for  those 
orchids ;  why  for  the  price  of  half  a  dozen  of  them  a 
girl  could  pay  her  laundry  bills  for  a  month  and  be 
careless  with  her  duck  skirts  at  that.  But  that  Mr. 
Gilson  you  saw  me  with  the  other  night,  now  he's 


82  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

practical.  He  gave  Claudine  Le  Mar  the  loveliest 
shirt-waist — laciest  thing  you  ever  saw.  His  wife's 
an  invalid,  and  she  just  begs  him  to  go  put  and  have 
a  good  time." 

Lusk  laughed  aloud  and  slapped  his  open  hand 
against  his  thigh. 

"My  dear,  if  all  the  men  who  said  that  to  chorus 
girls  told  the  truth  the  hospitals  wouldn't  hold  the 
invalid  wives.  I  tell  you,  Mother  Yorke,  it's  a  fine 
sight  for  a  gay  bachelor's  eyes  to  look  about  at  your 
little  circle  here  and  see  one  contented  united  family 
in  this  day  of  alimony  and  unhappy  marriages." 

Doris  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head  and 
tilted  her  chair  against  the  wall. 

"I  thought  alimony,"  she  suggested,  "came  after 
the  unhappy  marriages." 

Lusk  rubbed  his  hands  together  and  laughed  at  the 
little  chorus  girl.  "Not  with  me,"  he  said,  "I  always 
think  of  the  alimony  first.  I  saw  you  the  other  night 
at  the  Casino,  my  dear,  and  you  sure  looked  fine  in 
that  green  dress  in  the  second  act.  Yes,  she  did,  Mrs. 
Yorke,  fine,  \  tell  you.  Look  out  or  she'll  soon  be 
wearng  all  lace  shirt-waists  and  using  club  cabs. 
Many  a  girl  has  lost  her  way  between  the  Casino 
stage  door  and  the  old  homestead." 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  83 

The  girl's  face  flushed  scarlet.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet  and  in  a  moment  more,  with  her  arms  resting  on 
her  hips,  stood  looking  down  at  Lusk.  "Don't  you 
worry  about  me,  Max  Lusk,"  she  cried,  "not  for  the 
richest  broker  on  Wall  Street!"  With  her  tawny 
head  held  high  she  walked  slowly  out  of  the  room 
and  slammed  the  door  behind  her. 

The  round  face  of  Mrs.  Yorke  had  grown  quite 
apoplectic  with  rage.  "And  what  do  you  think  of 
that !"  she  stormed.  "Doris,  my  own  daughter,  and 
to  you  of  all  people,  Max  Lusk!  She's  a  devil,  that's 
what  she  is,  an  ungrateful  little  devil!  Don't  you 
mind  her  tantrums,  Mr.  Lusk.  Forget  it,  please, 
just  forget  it." 

But  the  broker  was  already  on  his  feet  and  hur- 
riedly pulling  on  his  coat.  His  putty  face  was  quite 
white,  and  his  ferret  eyes  were  snapping  with  anger, 
but  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Yorke,  and  trying  to  assume 
an  air  of  gaiety,  patted  her  on  her  broad  shoulder. 

"It's  all  right,  Mother  Yorke,  it's  all  right,"  he 
stammered.  "I  was  a  bit  too  free,  and  I  like  her 
spirit.  I  do,  I  admire  her  for  it.  Good  day  to  you, 
Mrs.  Yorke,  and  to  all  of  you."  And  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand  he  beat  a  hasty  retreat  and  hurried  down 
the  stairs  to  his  waiting  chariot. 


84  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

It  was  a  few  days  later  when  Fay  again  met 
Lusk.  This  time  it  was  at  the  New  York  Roof  Gar- 
den, where  she  had  gone  with  Porter  Fielding.  Aft- 
er the  first  act  she  and  Fielding  had  left  their  seats, 
walked  back  to  the  promenade,  and  stood  watching 
the  hot  perspiring  crowd  moving  up  and  down  the 
broad  aisle.  The  women  for  the  most  part  wore  filmy 
summer  dresses  with  big  flowered  hats,  but  a  few 
were  as  plainly  dressed  as  Fay  in  her  simple  shirt- 
waist and  duck  skirt  and  broad-brimmed  sailor  hat. 
But  notwithstanding  her  clothes,  the  unusual  beauty 
pf  the  girl  was  not  lost  on  the  crowd  that  moved 
slowly,  along  the  promenade.  The  women  looked 
at  her  with  frank  curiosity  and  the  men,  walking  in 
couples,  regarded  her  with  searching  glances  of  ill- 
concealed  admiration,  and  as  they  passed  by  where 
she  and  Fielding  stood,  frequently  nudged  each  oth- 
er and  smiled  broadly.  And  many  of  them,  instead 
of  continuing  to  the  end  of  the  promenade,  turned 
quickly  and  retraced  their  steps  so  that  they  might 
have  another  look  at  this  new  beauty  with  the  ivory 
skin  and  the  wonderful  masses  of  red  hair.  It  was 
a  crowd  composed  chiefly  of  the  men  and  women 
whose  amusement  and,  indeed,  whose  whole  inter- 
ests in  life  are  bounded  by  Wall  Street  and  Broad- 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  85 

way, — a  tired  crowd  satiated  with  good  food,  and 
strong  drink,  and  money  quickly  made,  and  to 
whom  a  new  and  pretty  face  acts  as  a  pleasing  tonic 
to  sluggish  nerves  and  dulled  appetites. 

It  was  not  the  kind  of  admiration  that  even  a 
girl  so  unsophisticated  as  Fay  Clayton  could  well 
misunderstand,  and  so  she  took  Fielding's  arm,  and 
they  started  to  push  their  way  through  the  crowd 
toward  the  aisle  that  led  to  their  seats.  It  was 
at  this  moment  that  they  came  upon  Lusk.  At  the 
sight  of  his  friends  his  gray  face  and  thin  blood- 
less lips  broke  into  a  smile  of  delighted  recognition, 
and  having  greeted  them  both  with  extreme  geniali- 
ty, he  proceeded  at  once  to  introduce  them  to  the 
lady  with  whom  he  was  walking. 

"Miss  Clayton,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  know  my 
very  good  friend,  Miss  Belle  Gordon.  I  want  you 
to  know  her  because  she's  a  fine  girl,  and  especially 
because  she's  to  be  with  you  in  The  Belles  of  Bar- 
bary.  You,  being  a  beginner,  she  might  help  you  a 
lot." 

Belle  Gordon  was  a  very  tall  and  very  good-look- 
ing brunette  with  large  bovine  eyes,  a  clean  healthy 
color  in  her  cheeks,  and  a  manner  that  seemed  to 
exude  good  nature  and  a  true  spirit  of  kindliness. 


86  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

She  put  out  a  glistening  white  glove  and  shook 
hands  with  Fay  with  much  cordiality. 

"I'm  glad  to  know  you,  Miss  Clayton,"  she  said  in 
a  pleasant,  well-modulated  voice;  "and  it's  fine  that 
you're  to  be  with  us.  It's  going  to  be  a  wonderful 
set  of  girls."  And  then,  casting  an  appreciative 
smile  at  Fay's  pretty  face  and  trim  lithe  figure,  she 
added :  "But  don't  you  worry,  my  dear,  none  of 
them'll  have  anything  on  you" 

"Why  not  get  together  after  the  show,"  Lusk  sug- 
gested, "and  have  a  bite  at  the  Knickerbocker?" 

Fay  protested  that  she  was  not  properly  dressed 
for  the  occasion,  and  indeed  her  simple  clothes  did 
seem  somewhat  inadequate  when  compared  to  the 
lace  dress  which  the  other  girl  wore,  but  both  Miss 
Gordon  and  Lusk  only  laughed  at  her  objections, 
and  insisted  that  Fay  and  Fielding  should  join  them. 

"Anything  goes  in  summer,"  Miss  Gordon  pro- 
tested, "and  besides  I  like  your  little  frock.  I'd  have 
worn  a  duck  skirt  to-night  myself,  but  the  only  two 
I  have  are  in  the  wash  and  I  didn't  have  enough 
money  this  week  to  pay  my  laundry  bill." 

With  this  palpably  untrue  but  well-meant  social 
pleasantry  they  parted,  but  with  the  understanding 
that  they  were  to  meet  an  hour  later  at  supper.  It 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  87 

was  through  this  chance  meeting  that  Fay  Clayton 
really  started  her  career  in  the  more  or  less  exotic 
life  of  Broadway,  and  in  which  she  was  soon  to  play 
so  conspicuous  a  part. 

The  first  appearance  of  Fay  under  the  most  stren- 
uous of  New  York's  white  lights  was  not,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  exactly  as  Lusk  had  planned  it.  He  was 
sorry  that  her  debut  with  him  in  one  of  the  big  res- 
taurants, where  he  was  well-known,  should  not  have 
been  made  in  more  spectacular  raiment.  He  regret- 
ted, in  a  way,  her  simple  if  well-fitting  clothes;  the 
sailor  hat  which  had  looked  so  becoming  at  Pleas- 
antville  seemed  just  a  trifle  too  simple  when  com- 
pared to  the  splendid  black  affair  of  Belle  Gordon 
with  its  great  bunch  of  bird  of  paradise  plumes,  and 
then  Fay's  white  silk  gloves  appeared  most  inade- 
quate and  distinctly  provincial.  But  in  many  ways 
the  chance  meeting  appealed  to  Lusk  as  a  fortunate 
one.  For  certain  reasons,  both  selfish  and  altru- 
istic, he  had  wanted  Fay  to  meet  Belle  Gordon, 
especially  before  the  rehearsals  had  begun  and  be- 
fore Fay  had  had  the  opportunity  to  make  friends 
of  her  own  choosing  among  the  girls  in  the  com- 
pany. Belle  Gordon  could  be  useful  to  the  new 
show-girl  in  the  theater  and  she  had  always  shown 


88  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

a  commendable  willingness  to  be  useful  to  Max 
Lusk  outside  of  it.  Besides,  his  mind  still  rankled 
over  the  scene  that  had  taken  place  during  his  last 
visit  to  the  Yorke  flat,  the  insult  which  Doris  Yorke 
had  flung  at  him,  and  to  which  Fay  had  been  a  wit- 
ness. 

Therefore,  it  was  with  unseeing  eyes  and  unhear- 
ing  ears  that  Lusk  sat  through  the  last  part  of  the 
performance  at  the  roof  garden,  but  his  heart  was 
warmed  with  a  pleasant  spirit  of  exhilaration  re- 
garding the  coming  little  supper-party  at  the  Knick- 
erbocker. 

The  head  waiter  found  them  a  table  at  an  open 
window,  and  Lusk  placed  Fay  so  that  she  could  see 
the  people  as  they  entered  the  big  cool-looking  room 
with  its  green  latticed  walls  and  snowy  white  tables, 
each  with  its  vase  of  fresh  flowers,  and  soft  pink- 
shaded  lamp.  To  the  country-bred  girl  it  was  like  a 
first  glimpse  into  fairy-land.  Her  young  heart  with 
all  its  innate  love  for  beautiful  things  glowed  and 
thrilled  at  the  sight  of  it,  and,  then,  with  a  sudden 
loathing,  there  flashed  through  her  mind  the  thought 
of  the  stuffy  dining-room  at  the  Yorke  flat,  and 
the  ill-smelling  smoky  restaurants,  where  she  and 
Porter  had  had  their  little  dinners  together,  and 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  89 

which  heretofore  had  seemed  so  bright,  and  so 
cheerful,  and  amusing  to  her.  For  the  moment  she 
had  forgotten  the  inadequacy  of  her  clothes  as  well 
as  the  very  existence  of  Fielding  and  Miss  Gordon 
and  Lusk.  In,  a  hazy  sort  of  way  it  seemed  to  the 
girl  as  if  she  had  suddenly  awakened  to  find  herself 
in  an  enchanted  garden  where  there  were  the  low 
pleasant  strains  of  sweet  music  and  where  every 
woman  wras  dressed  more  beautifully  than  she  had 
ever  seen  women  dress  before.  The  very  air  was 
charged  with  a  kind  of  subdued  gaiety  and  easy 
content,  and  every  one  seemed  so  kindly  disposed 
toward  every  one  else  and  to  bid  her,  an  unknown 
stranger,  a  warm  and  cheery  welcome. 

That  at  least  two  of  the  others  at  the  table  ap- 
peared heedless  to  the  charm  of  the  scene  about  them 
did  not  worry  her  for  one  brief  moment.  However 
callous  they  may  have  become  to  it  all,  she  well  knew 
that  she  had  discovered  a  kind  of  paradise  on  earth, 
which  seemed  to  satisfy  all  her  senses,  and  which 
would  always  remain  a  joy  to  her.  She  glanced  at 
Lusk  and  found  him  with  knit  brows  studying  the 
menu;  Belle  Gordon,  across  the  table,  was  looking 
out  of  the  high  French  window  at  the  twinkling 
lights  on  the  terrace,  and  stifling  a  yawn  with  her 


90  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

white  gloved  hand,  but  when  she  turned  to  Porter 
Fielding,  she  found  his  eyes  fixed  on  hers  and  in 
them  there  was  a  look  of  complete  happiness.  She 
nodded  and  smiled  at  him  in  a  way  that  seemed 
to  say,  "We  understand,"  and  then  unseen  by  the 
others  she  dropped  her  hand  to  her  side,  and  seek- 
ing his,  gently  pressed  it. 

Of  the  good  things  that  Lusk  had  ordered  with 
such  care  for  her  to  eat  and  drink  Fay  knew  or 
cared  but  little.  In  a  vague  way  she  knew  that 
it  was  all  very  dainty  and  that  the  china  was  ex- 
quisitely thin  and  that  every  sip  of  the  champagne 
she  drank  from  the  long  stemmed  Venetian  glass 
seemed  to  add  to  the  warmth  and  beauty  of  the 
scene  about  her.  Through  the  open  window  she 
could  hear  the  rumble  of  the  city,  but  here  there 
was  no  turmoil,  nothing  but  peace,  the  subdued 
strains  of  exquisite  sensuous  music,  and  the  smiling 
faces  of  men  and  women,  happy  and  content  in  the 
luxury  that  only  money  can  bring. 

During  the  supper  Lusk  was  eagerly  attentive  to 
her  and  pointed  out  various  local  celebrities,  seated 
at  the  different  tables,  or  as  they  entered  the 
room.  Several  of  the  actresses  whom  she  had 
seen  earlier  that  same  evening  on  the  stage  came 


in  very  late.  Some  were  accompanied  by  men 
sufficiently  old  to  be  their  fathers  and  others  by 
boys  still  young  enough  to  be  at  college,  and  for 
her  own  peace  of  mind  Fay  was  glad  to  see  that 
several  of  the  actresses  wore  clothes  as  simple  as 
her  own.  Lusk  and  Belle  Gordon  seemed  to  be 
acquainted  with  every  one,  and  were  constantly 
smiling  at,  and  nodding  to,  the  new  arrivals,  and 
although  Fay  and  Fielding  knew  no  one  they  were 
both  conscious  of  how  all  the  men  and  women  who 
passed  their  table  invariably  looked  back  with 
glances  of  the  frankest  admiration  at  the  new  and 
unknown  beauty.  From  every  standpoint  Lusk's 
little  supper-party  was  an  unqualified  success  and  it 
was  not  until  Fay  was  on  her  way  home  in  the  sub- 
way with  Fielding  that  she  realized  that  the  hap- 
piest evening  she  had  yet  known  was  at  an  end. 

Over  her  breakfast  of  coffee  and  eggs  and  bacon 
the  next  day  she  recounted  her  experiences  of  the 
previous  night  to  the  Yorke  family.  Mrs.  Yorke  and 
Angie  plied  her  with  innumerable  questions  as  to 
every  detail  of  the  supper,  but  Doris  remained  omi- 
nously silent,  and  old  Mr.  Hooker  regarded  her  with 
patriarchal  solemnity  over  the  rims  of  his  large 
spectacles.  When  the  enthusiastic  recital  was  over 


92  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

and  the  last  possible  question  had  been  asked  and  an- 
swered, the  old  man  ran  his  claw-like  fingers  slowly 
through  his  white  beard  and  with  a  weary  sigh  shook 
his  head  and  shuffled  back  to  his  rocking-chair  at  the 
window. 

Doris  was  left  to  clear  away  the  breakfast  table, 
and,  as  was  usually  the  case,  Fay  remained  to  help 
her.  When  the  door  was  closed  on  them  and  the 
two  girls  were  alone,  Fay  pushed  her  chair  away 
from  the  table  and  stared  at  Doris  until  she  had 
compelled  the  younger  girl  to  look  back  at  her. 

"Doris,"  she  asked,  "why  did  old  Mr.  Hooker  act 
like  that,  and  why  weren't  you  interested  in  my  sup- 
per-party? Surely  it  was  harmless  enough.  Don't 
you  think  I  ought  to  have  any  fun  ?  You  know  that 
there's  not  much  fun  for  us  here  at  home ;  is  there?" 

Doris'  thin  lips  broke  into  a  pathetic  little  smile 
and  she  leaned  her  narrow  shoulders  squarely 
against  the  wall  and  folded  her  arms. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you're  quite  right,  Fay.  There 
isn't  much  fun  at  the  flat  here,  and  those  swell  res- 
taurants are  mighty  restful  and  cool  when  it's  hot 
outside,  and  they're  warm  and  cozy  in  winter  when 
it's  freezing  in  the  street,  and  the  food  is  always 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  93 

good.  I  suppose  Pop  sighed  and  went  on  like  that 
because  he's  an  old  man,  and  then,  you  see,  he's  been 
in  show  business  all  of  his  life  and  has  watched 
girls  start,  just  as  you  are  starting,  and  he  naturally 
wonders,  I  suppose,  how  your  particular  case  is  com- 
ing out.  And  then,  too,  Pop  has  taken  a  great  shine 
to  you,  Fay,  just  as  everybody  else  has.  I  suppose 
it's  because  you're  so  sweet,  and  always  cheerful, 
and  so  darned  good  to  look  at,  and  so  terribly  inno- 
cent about  some  things." 

She  hesitated,  pursed  her  lips,  and  glanced  out  of 
the  open  window. 

"Well,"  Fay  said,  "go  on,  Doris.  Tell  me  what 
you  think;  you,  yourself." 

"What  do  I  think?"  Doris  continued  slowly.  "I 
think  that  it  is  all  a  question  of  the  price.  That's  it 
— just  what  you  are  willing  to  pay  and  that's  the 
question  that  you,  and  I,  and  every  girl  that's  work- 
ing for  her  living  in  this  big  rotten  city  has  got 
to  decide  sooner  or  later,  and  she's  got  to  decide  it 
for  herself.  Now  your  friend  Porter  Fielding's  all 
right.  You  can't  tell  yet  what  the  town  will  do  to 
him  in  its  own  good  time,  but  just  now  I'll  bet  he's 
clean  and  straight  as  a  willow  whistle." 


94  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

Fay  smiled.  "He's  all  of  that,"  she  said  with  a 
touch  of  real  pride.  "Porter  is  the  finest  man  I've 
ever  known." 

"Now,  Max  Lusk,"  Doris  went  on,  "isn't  a  bad 
sort  in  a  way.  He's  willing  to  pay  the  price  and  he 
pays  it  willingly.  He's  a  good  spender,  as  New 
York  men  go,  but  he  wants  his  pound  of  flesh.  He's 
no  anonymous  giver.  He'd  rather  put  a  certified 
check  for  two  hundred  dollars  into  the  plate  at  the 
synagogue  than  he  would  a  hundred  dollar  bill  any 
time,  because,  you  see,  they'd  know  who  the  check 
came  from.  Why,  if  Max  sent  a  valentine  present 
to  a  girl  he'd  put  a  couple  of  visiting  cards  in  for 
fear  she  might  think  some  other  John  had  sent  it. 
Now—" 

"It  seems  to  me,"  Fay  interrupted  with  some  little 
show  of  feeling,  "that  he  is  very  kind.  He  certainly 
has  been  good  to  me,  and  to  Porter,  too." 

"Of  course  he's  kind,"  Doris  went  on  quite  un- 
ruffled. "But  Lusk  don't  give  away  his  kindness. 
He  loans  it  out  at  ninety  days,  and  he  always  collects 
his  original  stake,  and  interest,  and  his  interest  is 
sometimes  very  high.  Now,  Belle  Gordon  is  a  good- 
natured  sort  of  a  cow  person.  Wouldn't  harm  a 
hornet  if  it  stung  her.  All  she  wants  is  a  soft  bed 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  95 

to  sleep  in  and  plenty  of  good  things  to  eat  and 
drink,  and  a  limousine  car,  and  when  air-ships  are 
perfectly  safe  she'll  want  one  of  those,  too,  and  she 
won't  care  very  much  how  she  gets  it. 

"When  you  start  rehearsing  you'll  soon  meet  all  of 
the  girls  in  the  troupe,  and  you'll  find  out  all  about 
them — everything.  Some  of  them'll  be  good  and 
some  bad,  but  that'll  be  according  to  their  way  of 
looking  at  things,  and  according  to  your  way.  But 
my  advice  is  to  go  slow  and  pick  out  your  own 
friends  and  don't  let  Max  Lusk  do  it  for  you.  Any- 
how, if  you  take  my  advice,  you  won't  identify  your- 
self with  Belle  Gordon,  that  is,  unless  you  want  to 
pull  with  her  crowd,  and  stand  for  their  ways,  which 
are  not  the  ways  of  a  good  many  of  the  girls,  or,  in- 
cidentally, my  ways,  or  the  ways,  I  should  think,  of 
Pleasantville,  New  Jersey." 

Fay  got  up  and  started  to  clear  away  the  debris 
left  from  the  breakfast,  and  as  Doris  came  to  help 
her,  the  older  girl  with  a  sudden  impulse  quickly 
put  out  her  arms,  and  drawing  the  younger  one  to 
her,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"Thank  you,  Doris,"  she  whispered.  "You  see, 
it's  all  so  new  and  strange  to  me,  and  you're  the 
only  one  I  can  depend  on.  Please  don't  think  I'm 


96  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

ungrateful,  because  I  have  no  one  else  to  turn  to,  and 
I  need  your  help  so  much — more  than  you  can  guess. 
Why,  kid,  you  must  see  that  I  don't  even  know  the 
A  B  C  of  these  people's  language." 

Doris  smiled  up  at  Fay  as  a  mother  might  smile 
at  her  child,  and  then  drawing  herself  away  from 
her,  once  more  started  to  clear  away  the  table. 

"That's  right,  Fay,"  she  said,  "I  guess  that's 
right,  but  after  you've  been  in  a  dressing-room  with 
that  crowd  at  the  theater  for  a  week  you'll  speak 
their  language  to  X  Y  Z  and  so  forth.  Except  there 
is  no  'and  so  forth'  in  a  show-girl's  alphabet — they 
tell  every  detail.  But,  Fay,  just  remember  one  thing. 
Even  if  you  have  to  listen  to  the  X  Y  Z  of  their 
language,  and,  perhaps,  sometimes  have  to  talk  it 
yourself,  remember  you  can  always  think  in  the 
A  B  C  of  it." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  day  of  Fay's  first  rehearsal  came  at  last, 
and  Doris  went  to  the  theater  with  her  to  in- 
troduce her  to  Morley,  the  stage-manager,  and  any 
members  of  the  company  that  she  happened  to  know. 
There  were  dozens  of  girls  standing  about  the 
cleared  stage  in  groups  or  sitting  in  long  lines  on 
rough  wooden  benches.  Morley  was  at  a  little 
table  with  a  long  list  of  names  before  him  and  be- 
side him  sat  Ben  Tolliver,  the  manager  and  nominal 
owner  of  the  show.  Doris  led  Fay  up  to  the  table 
and  introduced  her  to  the  two  men,  who,  with  their 
cigars  clenched  closely  between  their  teeth,  nodded 
at  her  and  then  with  calm  scrutiny  looked  her  over 
from  head  to  foot.  Morley  glanced  at  his  list,  and 
turned  to  Tolliver. 

"She's  the  girl  Harberg  sent,"  he  v/hispered; 
"she'll  do,  won't  she?" 

"You  bet  she'll  do,"  Tolliver  grunted.  "Come  to 
my  office  between  three  and  four  this  afternoon, 
Miss  Clayton,  and  I'll  give  you  a  contract." 

97 


98  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

Once  more  the  two  men  nodded  to  her,  and  as  Fay 
turned  away  she  heard  Tolliver  say :  "Will  she  do  ? 
I  only  wish  we  had  a  few  more  like  her." 

Doris  led  Fay  about  the  stage,  introducing  her  to 
several  of  the  girls,  to  whom  she  explained  that  her 
friend  was  a  beginner,  and  that  they  must  look  after 
her  and  tell  her  how  to  make  up,  and  be  dressed  in 
time  for  her  cues.  Belle  Gordon  left  a  group  of  par- 
ticularly well  dressed  and  good-looking  women, 
who,  Doris  explained  under  her  breath,  were  the 
show-girls,  and  gave  Fay  a  most  genial  welcome. 

"I  won't  introduce  you  to  that  bunch  over  there," 
she  said,  "until  to-morrow.  There's  no  hurry  and 
you'll  see  all  you  want  of  them  and  more  too  before 
the  season's  over.  I  just  heard  what  Tolliver  said 
to  Morley  about  you.  You  start  strong  with  the 
management,  anyhow.  By-by." 

At  the  door  that  led  from  the  street  they  came 
to  another  group  of  three  girls  who  were  standing 
apart  from  the  others  and  whom  Doris  greeted  with 
the  most  friendly  interest. 

"We're  here  just  on  the  chance,"  one  of  them  ex- 
plained, "but  I  don't  suppose  we've  got  a  ghost,  do 
you?" 

From  where  she  stood  Fay  glanced  at  their  poor 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  99 

clothes  and  their  hot  tired  faces  and  understood, 
but  Doris  laughed  aloud  and  patted  the  girl  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Why,  Mazie,"  she  said,  "of  course  you've  got  a 
great  chance.  I  don't  think  this  crowd  is  such  a 
much.  Do  you  know  Tolliver?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  don't,  but  I 
worked  for  Morley  once." 

"Come  along  with  me,"  Doris  said,  and  Fay 
watched  her,  followed  by  the  three  girls,  push  her 
way  through  the  crowd  to  the  manager's  table.  The 
two  men  with  amused  faces  listened  to  Doris'  ex- 
cited earnest  talk,  and  after  a  whispered  conversa- 
tion, Morley  made  a  note  of  the  girls'  names  and 
then  laughingly  waved  them  away.  A  moment  later 
Doris  joined  Fay  and  they  went  out  of  the  stage 
door  and  the  dark  gloomy  theater  into  the  hot  sun- 
shine of  the  street. 

"That,  was  mighty  nice  of  you,  Doris,"  Fay  said. 

But  Doris  only  blushed  and  plunged  into  a  long 
dissertation  on  the  vagaries  of  her  profession :  how 
success  depended  so  largely  on  opportunity  and  in- 
fluence, and  how  seldom  it  came  as  a  reward  for  in- 
trinsic worth  and  virtue  and  hard  painstaking  ef- 
fort; how  the  favorites  of  the  manager  and  the 


ioo  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

stage-manager  got  the  occasional  lines  to  read,  and 
the  small  "bits"  to  play,  and  were  given  the  "special" 
dresses  to  wear,  which  gave  them  at  least  a  certain 
pictorial  prominence,  while  the  girl  without  friends 
remained  season  after  season  in  the  last  row  of  the 
chorus. 

That  afternoon  Fay  signed  a  contract  that  called 
for  a  salary  of  twenty-five  dollars  a  week.  She 
ran  down  the  dusty  stairs  from  the  manager's  of- 
fice and  out  into  the  glare  of  the  hot  sun  clasping  the 
piece  of  paper  tightly  in  her  hand,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment she  was  supremely  happy  in  the  thought  that 
she  had  proved  her  ability  to  earn  her  own  living 
and  had  taken  the  first  step  up  the  ladder  of  fame. 
With  her  pretty  head  held  high,  her  lips  and  eyes 
smiling  with  the  happiness  that  was  in  her  heart,  she 
swung  proudly  along  Broadway,  and  in  the  security 
of  her  new  position,  she  even  felt  a  real  pang  of 
pity  for  the  little  groups  of  unemployed  seedy-look- 
ing actors  and  poorly  dressed  soubrettes  who  crowd- 
ed the  sidewalk.  These  were  the  members  of  her 
chosen  profession  who  had  been  tried  and  found 
wanting,  and  failure  was  written  large  in  their  wan 
tired  faces.  At  a  glance  one  could  see  the  sterility 
of  their  lives,  and  that  they  and  hope  and  ambition 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  101 

had  long  since  parted  company.  But  she  had  youth 
and  health  and  superlative  beauty  and  a  joyous- 
ness  in  her  very  walk  that  brought  smiles  to  even 
the  lane  of  wan  faces  through  which  she  passed. 
And,  besides  all  this,  in  her  hand  she  held  a  contract 
that  guaranteed  her  a  living  income  and  the  right  to 
show  her  beauty  on  a  Broadway  stage. 

The  next  day  Fay  began  her  rehearsals  and  sat  on 
one  of  the  many  long  benches,  as  did  all  the  other 
girls,  and  sang  the  choruses  of  several  songs  from 
little  typewritten  slips  of  paper.  This  she  did  every 
morning  and  afternoon  for  a  week,  and  then  Morley 
took  her  and  the  other  seven  show-girls  in  hand  and 
drilled  them  in  a  few  simple  dancing  steps  and  in 
walking  in  unison  up  and  down  and  across  the  stage. 
It  was  all  very  easy  and  while  the  stage-manager 
frequently  lost  his  temper  and  swore  at  the  chorus 
girls,  especially  those  who  did  the  more  difficult 
dances,  he  always  treated  the  eight  show-girls  with 
much  respect  and  the  greater  consideration. 

When  the  chorus  was  rehearsing  Fay  sat  in  the  de- 
serted orchestra  seats,  or  in  a  stage-box  and  chatted 
with  some  of  her  seven  co-workers,  or  listened  to 
their  tales  of  the  automobile  ride,  or  the  "rough- 
house  party"  of  the  previous  night.  Several  times 


102  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

different  girls  had  invited  her  to  join  them  at  din- 
ners that  were  to  be  given  them  by  their  men  friends, 
but  Fay  had  always  refused  on  the  excuse  of  a  previ- 
ous engagement.  She  was  still  feeling  her  way 
among  these  new  friends,  and  following  the  advice  of 
Doris  Yorke,  had  not  allied  herself  with  any  of  the 
different  groups  of  girls.  That  there  were  great  so- 
cial distinctions  between  these  different  groups  was 
quite  evident,  but  as  to  whether  these  distinctions 
were  founded  on  superior  position  on  or  off  the 
stage,  or  on  financial  or  moral  conditions,  was  still, 
to  Fay,  a  complete  enigma. 

The  night  rehearsals  had  not  yet  begun  and  so 
she  had  her  evenings  free  to  dine  with  Fielding. 
Once  as  a  great  extravagance  they  had  gone  back 
to  the  Knickerbocker,  but  the  other  nights,  owing 
to  a  necessary  regard  for  economy,  they  had  been 
forced  to  content  themselves  with  the  less  expensive 
table  d'hote  restaurants.  If  the  pleasures  of  the 
latter  had  been  somewhat  dimmed  by  a  newly- 
gained  knowledge  of  fairy-lit  palaces  farther  up- 
town, this  misfortune,  in  their  mutual  scheme  of 
happiness,  was  to  a  great  extent  compensated  for  by 
the  pleasure  Fay  found  in  telling  of  her  daily  work 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  103 

at  the  theater  and  of  her  experience  in  the  new 
world  that  was  just  opening  before  her. 

It  was  nearly  a  fortnight  after  Lusk's  little  sup- 
per-party that  Fay  again  met  the  man  who  had  made 
her  new  life  possible.  One  afternoon  when  the  re- 
hearsal was  over  she  had  left  the  stage  door  at  the 
same  time  as  Belle  Gordon,  and  the  latter  had  in- 
sisted on  Fay  walking  over  to  her  place  for  a  cup  of 
tea.  Miss  Gordon  made  her  home  in  a  charming 
little  flat  in  an  apartment-house  on  West  Forty-sixth 
Street,  and  it  so  happened  that  it  was  the  first  time 
Fay  had  had  the  opportunity  to  see  how  any  of  her 
fellow- workers  lived  outside  of  the  theater. 

The  afternoon  was  very  hot  and  it  was  with 
a  distinct  gasp  of  pleasure  and  relief  that  Fay 
entered  the  small,  carefully  shaded  sitting-room 
and  sank  into  a  deep  wicker  chair  with  its  cool 
fresh  covering  of  flowered  chintz.  Through  half- 
closed  eyes  she  glanced  about  the  cozy  homelike 
place  with  its  gray  and  gold  wall-paper  and  its 
hangings  of  light  green  silk.  There  were  half  a 
dozen  big  luxurious  chairs  and  in  one  corner  a 
low  couch  covered  with  dark  green  leather  and  in 
another  a  piano,  its  top  littered  with  music.  On  the 


104  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

mantel  there  was  a  large  photograph  of  Miss  Gor- 
don in  a  silver  frame,  and  about  the  walls  were  sev- 
eral mezzotints  and  line  engravings.  A  pair  of  old- 
fashioned  andirons  glistened  on  the  empty  hearth 
under  a  white-fluted  colonial  mantelpiece,  and  wher- 
ever she  turned  her  eyes  Fay  seemed  to  find  some'- 
thing  new  and  beautiful.  And  about  it  all,  and 
above  everything  else,  there  was  an  air  of  quiet  and 
repose  that  rested  her  and  soothed  her  excited 
nerves  after  the  long  hot  day  at  the  theater. 

Fay  closed  her  eyes  and  gave  a  little  sigh  of  pure 
content. 

"It's  so  beautiful  and  cool  and  wonderful,"  she 
said,  "I  wonder  how  you  can  ever  leave  it." 

"It  is  sort  of  nice,"  Miss  Gordon  laughed.  "Come 
in  and  take  off  your  hat  and  make  yourself  at 
home." 

She  led  her  through  her  dainty  bedroom,  with  its 
white  furniture  and  delicate  pink  hangings,  to  a 
big  bathroom  with  glistening  tiles  and  deep  enam- 
eled tub  and  glass  shelves  covered  with  rows  pf 
gold-topped  toilet  bottles. 

A  few  moments  later  Fay  returned  to  the  sitting- 
room,  cool  and  refreshed,  her  eyes  shining,  and  her 
mind  satiated  with  the  love  that  her  mother  had 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  105 

given  her  for  all  that  was  beautiful  and  exquisite  in 
material  things.  A  pretty  French  maid  brought  them 
the  tea-tray,  and  the  two  girls  sat  across  the  table 
and  laughed  and  talked  the  gossip  of  the  theater, 
drank  their  tea,  and  ate  cakes  and  sandwiches  as  thin 
as  wafers.  And  Fay  fairly  reveled  in  the  comforta- 
ble luxury  of  it  all  and  was  wonderfully  content. 

It  was  on  her  way  to  the  subway  station  just  after 
she  had  left  Belle  Gordon's  apartment  that  she  met 
Max  Lusk  hurrying  in  the  opposite  direction  along 
Forty-sixth  Street. 

As  he  caught  sight  of  her,  the  little  broker's  face 
was  suddenly  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  he  greeted  her 
with  what  was  apparently  meant  for  the  most  heart- 
felt delight  at  the  unexpected  meeting. 

"What  luck!"  he  cried.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
You're  looking  great!  Tell  me  how  you  like  show 
business." 

"Fine,  as  far  as  I've  gone,"  Fay  said,  "but  I'm 
afraid  I'm  taking  you  out  of  your  way." 

"Not  at  all,"  Lusk  protested,  "my  way  is  always 
your  way.  I  was  just  walking  over  to  Del's  to  talk 
business  with  some  men;  but  what's  business  to  a 
stroll  with  a  pretty  girl  ?  Let  'em  wait !" 

With  a  glance  of  pride  and  complete  satisfaction 


io6  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

at  his  good-looking  companion,  he  fell  into  step  and 
they  walked  slowly  toward  Broadway. 

"How  do  they  treat  you,"  he  asked ;  "pretty  good, 
eh?  You  must  let  me  know  if  any  of  those  stage- 
managers  get  gay.  They're  liable  to  be  pretty  fresh 
sometimes." 

"Oh,  they're  all  right,"  Fay  laughed.  "I  guess 
they  know  I'm  from  the  country,  but  I'm  learning 
every  day.  Do  you  see  my  white  gloves  and  my  new 
sailor?  Give  me  a  few  weeks  more  and  my  salary 
and  I'll  look  the  part  all  right,  believe  me." 

Lusk  glanced  at  the  glistening  gloves  and  the 
broad  sailor  hat  and  smiled  his  complete  approval. 

"And  how  are  all  the  girls  ?"  he  asked.  "Civil  and 
decent  to  you? — they're  a  bit  catty  sometimes." 

"Not  to  me,"  Fay  said ;  "they've  really  been  love- 
ly. Asked  me  out  to  parties  and  all  sorts  of  things, 
but  I  haven't  gone  to  a  party  yet — not  one." 

Lusk  nodded.  "Just  as  well,"  he  said  approving- 
ly. "Just  as  well  to  go  slow.  Seen  anything  of  Belle 
Gordon?" 

"I've  just  left  her — she  pretty  near  saved  my  life ; 
I  was  so  tired  and  weary  after  the  rehearsal,  and 
she  asked  me  up  to  her  flat  for  a  cup  of  tea.  My, 
but  it's  a  wonderful  place  she's  got,  so  dainty  and 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  107 

comforable!  It  certainly  looked  good  after  the 
Yorke  flat;  I  don't  know,  but  just  quiet  and  peace- 
ful. You  wouldn't  mind  the  dust  and  the  heat  of 
the  city  if  you  had  a  home  like  that  to  go  to." 

Lusk  glanced  sharply  into  the  girl's  eyes,  but  she 
was  looking  away  and  did  not  notice  him. 

Again  he  found  his  plans  moving  more  rapidly 
than  he  had  hoped  for,  but  the  conditions  seemed  to 
invite  immediate  action.  Fay's  beauty  had  never 
seemed  more  evident  than  on  this  summer  after- 
noon, and  besides  he  knew  that  during  her  two 
weeks  of  rehearsals,  she  must  have  acquired  consid- 
erable knowledge  as  to  how  the  other  girls  lived. 

"That's  funny,"  he  said,  "but  I  was  just  thinking 
when  I  met  you  that  I  had  to  look  for  a  flat  myself. 
There's  an  apartment-house  a  little  below  here 
where  they  have  some  fine  rooms.  Would  you  mind 
going  with  me  and  giving  me  the  advantage  of  your 
advice?" 

Fay  was  pleased  and  flattered  at  the  suggestion, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  they  had  entered  the  marble 
vestibule  of  the  apartment-house  and  Lusk  started 
in  on  a  long  heart-to-heart  conversation  with  the 
manager. 

"There's  just  one  furnished  suite  left,"  Lusk  said, 


io8  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

turning  to  Fay.  "It's  on  the  first  floor.  Let's  go  up 
and  have  a  look  at  it" 

The  manager  accompanied  them  in  the  elevator, 
showed  them  the  rooms,  and  having  told  them  of 
the  changes  he  was  willing  to  make,  left  them  alone. 

"There's  plenty  of  space  and  plenty  of  light," 
Lusk  said  enthusiastically,  "and  I  must  say  it  looks 
pretty  good  to  me.  Of  course,  we  can  practically 
make  any  changes  we  wish,  that  is  if  we  take  it  for 
twelve  months." 

While  the  apartment  lacked  the  repose  of  Belle 
Gordon's,  it  was  larger  and  much  richer  in  its  ap- 
pointments, and  Fay  immediately  began  to  specu- 
late on  the  alterations  in  the  decorations  and  furni- 
ture that  she  would  make  were  it  hers  to  do  with 
as  she  liked.  Apparently  unconscious  of  Lusk's 
presence,  she  wandered  through  the  different  rooms, 
examining  each  detail  of  the  decoration  and  every 
piece  of  furniture  and  bric-a-brac  and  picture  with 
the  greatest  possible  interest.  At  last  she  sank  into 
the  cushions  of  a  low  deep  chair  by  the  window, 
and,  with  half-closed  eyes,  looked  about  the  cozy  lit- 
tle sitting-room  as  if  to  get  the  full  effect  of  all  its 
luxurious  comfort. 

"It's  lovely,"  she  said  with  a  little  sigh,  "quite 


At  last  she  sank  into  the  cushions  of  a  low  deep  chair. 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  109 

lovely.  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  take  it,  surely, 
aren't  you?  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  have  a  place 
like  this  just  for  my  very  own  to  work  and  dream 
in?  Wouldn't  it  be  wonderful!" 

Lusk  smiled  and  took  a  few  steps  that  brought 
him  to  the  side  of  Fay's  chair. 

"It  is  better  than  Mother  Yorke's  flat,"  he  said, 
"a  good  deal  better.  More  comfy  and  independent, 
too,  eh?" 

The  little  broker  smiled  at  the  girl  and  rubbed  his 
thin  hands  briskly  together. 

"What  do  you  say,  my  dear?  It's  yours,  all  yours, 
if  you  just  say  the  word." 

Fay  looked  up  at  the  gray  putty  face  and  smiled. 

"Mine?"  she  said  incredulously.  "This  mine — 
not  on  twenty- five  dollars  a  week." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked.  "A  year's  rent  and  the 
running  expenses  as  a  little  present  from  me.  Think 
it  over,  my  dear,  think  it  over." 

The  girl's  face  grew  suddenly  scarlet,  and  with 
one  quick  movement  she  was  on  her  feet  and  staring 
into  Lusk's  eyes,  now  filled  with  terror,  as  the  full 
significance  of  his  mistake  overpowered  him  com- 
pletely. 

Her  lithe  figure  drawn  to  its  full  height,  her  eyes 


i  io  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

flashing,  she  drew  back  her  strong  arm  and  whipped 
her  gloved  hand  across  the  miserable  cringing  face 
•before  her.  With  a  cry,  half  fear,  half  rage,  Lusk 
fell  back,  throwing  his  arms  before  him,  and  Fay, 
running  through  the  open  door,  slammed  it  behind 
her,  and  rushed  down  the  stairway  to  the  protection 
of  the  open  street. 

Fay  returned  at  once  to  the  Yorke  flat,  hurried  to 
her  bedroom  and  locked  the  door.  A  moment  later 
she  heard  the  heavy  footsteps  of  Mother  Yorke 
coming  down  the  hallway  and  this  was  followed  by 
a  persistent  inquisitive  knock.  But  Fay  was  in  no 
mood  for  gossip  and  refused  to  admit  her,  excusing 
herself  on  the  grounds  of  a  bad  headache  and  the 
urgent  necessity  for  undisturbed  rest.  Her  body, 
hot  and  tired,  her  brain  still  throbbing  with  excite- 
ment, she  threw  herself  on  the  bed  and  lay  on  her 
back  staring  with  dry  wide  eyes  at  the  ceiling. 

After  a  time  her  indignation  at  the  insult  gave 
way  to  thoughts  more  practical.  Her  mind,  al- 
though still  confused  with  many  emotions,  was  try- 
ing to  grasp  some  idea  of  just  what  a  difference 
this  breaking  with  Lusk  would  make  in  her  affairs. 
It  did  not  occur  to  her  for  a  moment  that  the  break 


Ill 

was  not  necessarily  permanent.  Any  such  thought 
to  the  contrary  she  would  have  cast  away  with  in- 
dignation and  disgust.  But  her  present  situation 
was  a  serious  one  and  she  thoroughly  realized  that 
she  had  lost  the  friendship  of  the  broker  at  a  time 
when  it  was  most  essential  to  her.  In  six  months, 
perhaps  in  a  much  shorter  period,  she  could  have 
stood  on  her  own  feet.  Now  she  needed  this  man's 
help.  It  was  not  only  what  he  might  have  been 
willing  to  do  for  her,  but  now  it  became  a  question 
as  to  what  extent  he  would  use  his  influence  to  in- 
jure her  at  the  theater. 

And  besides  this,  she  needed  money,  not  much,  but 
enough  to  pay  her  actual  living  expenses  until  the 
season  opened  and  she  could  depend  on  her  salary. 
The  little  savings  of  years  that  she  had  brought  with 
her  from  Pleasantville  were  nearly  gone.  There  had 
been  clothes  to  buy  to  make  her  look  presentable 
at  the  rehearsals,  and  then  there  were  the  lunches 
between  the  morning  and  afternoon  rehearsals. 
Several  times  girls,  who  seemed  to  have  unlimited 
pocket-money,  had  asked  her  to  lunch  with  them  at 
the  best  restaurants,  and  Fay  had  always  promptly 
returned  this  rather  expensive  hospitality.  Added 


ii2  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

to  this  there  were  the  ten  dollars  a  week  for  her 
room  and  board  at  Mrs.  Yorke's,  and  a  hundred  lit- 
tle expenses  that  had  reduced  her  meager  hoard  very 
close  to  the  vanishing  point. 

With  the  exception  of  the  Claytons  and  per- 
haps Porter  Fielding,  there  was  no  one  to  whom 
she  had  the  right  to  turn.  The  Claytons  had  not 
only  resented  her  going  on  the  stage,  but  were 
pitifully  poor.  Fielding  was  having  a  hard  time 
to  live  and  dress  properly  on  the  small  salary  that 
he  was  receiving  from  Lusk  Brothers,  and  Fay 
knew,  only  too  well,  how  hopelessly  in  debt  was 
every  member  of  the  Yorke  family.  She  had  no 
jewelry  nor  anything  of  value  to  pawn,  and  a 
week  before,  when  she  had  thoroughly  appreciated 
the  seriousness  of  her  position,  a  loan  from  Lusk 
seemed  the  only  way  out  of  her  present  troubles. 
Half  a  dozen  times  he  had  offered  her  his  help  in 
case  that  such  an  emergency  should  arise,  and  she 
had,  practically  decided  that  when  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  she  would  go  to  him  and  ask  his  aid. 
Of  this  decision  she  had  said  nothing  to  Porter 
Fielding.  It  would  only  distress  him,  and  besides, 
as  soon  as  she  began  to  earn  a  salary,  she  could  in 
a  short  time  pay  back  Lusk  his  loan.  But  now  she 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  113 

could  never  see  Lusk  again,  certainly  never  ask  him 
a  favor. 

The  situation  seemed  hopeless  and  once  more 
her  thoughts  turned  to  an  enforced  return  to 
Pleasantville.  But  it  would  be  an  enforced  return. 
Notwithstanding  the  heat  and  dust  of  the  baked  de- 
serted city,  and  in  spite  of  its  lifeless  air,  she  knew 
that  she  loved  it.  The  idea  of  returning  to  the  quiet 
calm  of  her  former  uneventful  life  had  already  be- 
come well-nigh  impossible  to  her,  and  the  more  she 
thought  of  these  things,  the  more  confused  became 
her  mind.  With  flushed  face  and  temples  throbbing, 
she  jumped  from  the  bed  and  took  several  quick 
turns  up  and  down  the  little  room.  Hardly  conscious 
of  what  she  was  doing,  she  called  aloud  for  Doris 
Yorke. 

After  one  glance  at  Fay's  flushed  face  and  excited 
eyes,  Doris  closed  the  door  of  the  bedroom  behind 
her,  and  taking  the  older  girl  by  the  hand,  led  her 
to  a  chair  by  the  open  window.  She  forced  Fay  to 
sit  down,  and  dropping  to  her  knees  and  taking  both 
of  Fay's  cold  hands  in  her  own  soft  warm  ones,  she 
gently  pressed  them  against  her  flat  child's  breast. 

"Have  your  troubles  really  begun,  dear?"  she 
asked.  "What  is  it,  a  row  with  the  stage-manager  ?" 


ii4  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

Fay  looked  out  pf  the  window  on  the  dirty  yellow 
walls  of  the  court.  She  was  already  sorry  that  she 
had  decided  to  tell  Doris  of  her  troubles,  but  it  was 
too  late  now  to  turn  back. 

"No,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  scarcely  rose  above 
a  whisper,  "it's  worse  than  that ;  it's  Lusk." 

She  felt  the  hands  of  the  girl  kneeling  at  her  feet 
close  tightly  about  her  own,  and  it  gave  her  confi- 
dence to  go  on  with  the  story  of  her  experience  at 
the  apartment-house.  And  then  she  hurriedly  told 
of  her  fears  that  Lusk  would  have  her  put  out  of 
the  company,  of  her  lack  of  funds,  and  of  her  pre- 
vious determination  to  borrow  the  money  from 
the  broker  to  tide  over  her  immediate  needs.  Doris 
listened  to  Fay's  recital  of  her  woes  with  a  friendly 
interest  but  a  somewhat  aggravating  calmness  and 
the  least  suggestion  of  a  smile  playing  about  her 
pale  pretty  lips. 

"Why,  that's  all  right,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "Of 
course,  it  was  dull  of  Lusk  to  make  his  play  so  early 
in  the  game,  but  you  must  have  known  it  had  to 
come.  You  ought  to  be  thankful  that  that  particular 
trouble  is  behind  you  instead  of  ahead  of  you,  and 
we  can  fix  up  the  money  difficulties  easily  enough." 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  115 

There  was  something  in  Doris'  manner,  perhaps 
more  than  in  her  words,  that  made  Fay  feel  that 
her  troubles  were  probably  not  so  great  as  she  had 
imagined  them,  and  she  gave  a  sharp  little  gasp  of 
relief. 

"You're  so  very  dear  to  me,"  she  whispered.  "Tell 
me  what  am  I  to  do." 

Doris  laughed  and  pulled  herself  to  her  feet. 

"You  ?  You're  not  to  do  anything.  You  see  it's 
like  this." 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  rested  her  el- 
bows on  her  knees  and  her  chin  between  her  palms. 

"All  the  men  in  New  York,"  she  went  on,  "aren't 
Max  Lusks,  although  when  you  first  go  into  the  busi- 
ness, you  are  pretty  sure  to  think  that  they  are.  A 
girl  in  the  company,  let  us  say,  has  a  man  friend 
who  may  be  a  pretty  good  sort,  but  he  has  a  man 
friend  whom  he  has  to  take  out  to  supper,  so  he 
asks  his  girl  friend  to  bring  along  another  girl  from 
the  company.  Well,  so  you  are  chosen,  and  you  trail 
along,  and  the  chances  are  that  the  man  friend  is  just 
a  business  acquaintance  and  probably  a  rotter,  and 
you  get  all  the  worst  of  it.  Believe  me,  the  thing 
you've  got  to  look  out  for  in  show  business  is  the 


n6  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

man  friend  of  the  man  friend  of  your  best  girl 
friend.  But,  bless  you!  that  don't  last  forever,  be- 
cause gradually  you  make  your  own  friends,  and  it's 
up  to  you  to  ask  the  girl  to  meet  the  unknown  rotter. 
Mind  you,  I  don't  say  that  nearly  all  men  are  not 
alike — that  is,  as  far  as  the  way  they  treat  girls  on 
the  stage — because  as  a  matter  of  fact  they  are. 
But  there  are  just  enough  exceptions  to  make  men 
friends  worth  while  and  to  keep  up  your  belief 
in  the  sex.  I  know  one  myself." 

Doris'  philosophy  and  her  hopeful  outlook  on  life 
had  gone  far  to  soothe  Fay's  outraged  feelings  and 
now  she  could  smile  cheerfully  at  the  chorus  girl's 
optimism. 

"Only  one?"  she  asked. 

Doris  pursed  her  lips  and  knitted  her  brows  as  if 
in  serious  thought. 

"Well,  only  one  I'm  perfectly  sure  of.  His  name 
is  James  Alexander  Stuart.  He's  really  a  great 
swell,  and  he  doesn't  belong  to  Broadway  at  all,  ex- 
cept to  act  as  a  sort  of  bank  for  chorus  girls  in  hard 
luck.  He  says  they  appeal  to  his  imagination,  and 
his  sense  of  humor,  which  free  libraries  and  peace 
congresses  don't.  He'd  love  to  help  you  out,  if  I 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  117 

told  him  your  story,  and  he  wouldn't  even  ask  me 
your  name." 

"Then  why  don't  you  ask  him,"  Fay  said,  "to  help 
your  mother  and  Angie?" 

"Never.  Mother's  rent  wouldn't  appeal  to  his 
imagination  or  his  sense  of  humor  at  all.  He  knows 
they  would  laugh  at  him  behind  his  back  and  call 
him  an  easy  mark.  Jimmy  Stuart  must  be  treated 
as  a  philanthropist,  not  as  a  good  thing,  and  you 
must  always  spend  the  money  he  gives  you  as  he 
tells  you.  I  knew  a  girl,  Tina  Tracy,  who  was  a 
show-girl  with  me  once.  She  got  a  hundred  dollars 
from  Jimmy  to  buy  a  pair  of  antique  gold  shoe 
buckles,  but  before  she  got  the  buckles  another  girl 
in  the  company  had  some  trouble  with  her  lungs,  and 
so  Tina  handed  over  the  hundred  to  her  so  that  she 
could  go  away  on  a  vacation.  When  Jimmy  heard 
about  it  he  was  awful  mad,  really  mad,  and  said  a 
girl  threatened  with  consumption  wasn't  picturesque, 
but  any  girl  who  would  wear  a  pair  of  antique  gold 
buckles  on  shoes  that  were  ragged  and  half -soled 
was.  Then  he  came  to  me  and  gave  me  the  money 
to  have  the  girl  with  the  bad  lungs  sent  to  a  camp 
in  the  Adirondacks  for  a  year.  She's  playing  a 


u8  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

good  part  on  Broadway  to-day,  and  she'd  give  the 
world  to  know  who  saved  her  life,  but  Jimmy  would 
never  let  me  tell.  But,  at  that,  he's  still  sore  about 
Tina  not  buying  the  buckles,  and  loves  to  go  around 
telling  everybody  how  she  deceived  him." 

Doris  got  up  and  stretched  her  arms  luxuriously 
above  her  head. 

"Well,  Fay,"  she  asked,  "feeling  any  better? 
Whenever  your  red  hair  and  wonderful  face  and 
shape  get  you  in  trouble  with  too  ardent  admirers 
always  come  to  me  and  I'll  tell  you  some  more  tales 
of  the  Great  White  Way." 

Fay  took  the  little  figure  in  her  arms  and  kissed 
Doris  on  the  forehead.  "Thank  you,  dear,"  she 
said,  "I  will,  always.  You're  a  great  doctor  for  the 
mind,  Doris.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  with- 
out you." 

Doris  smiled  and  started  for  the  door.  "I  guess 
I'll  call  up  Jimmy  now  and  invite  him  to  invite  me  to 
lunch  to-morrow.  I'll  tell  him  I  need  the  money. 
How  much  do  you  want,  Fay?" 

Fay  hesitated  and  looked  away  from  Doris  to  her 
long  slender  hands  which  were  clasped  tightly  to- 
gether before  her. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  she  whispered,  "I  can't  do  it." 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  119 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  Doris  argued,  "don't  be  fool- 
ish. Will  a  hundred  be  enough?" 

Fay  looked  up  and  nodded.  "Yes,  more  than 
enough,  and  don't  forget  to  tell  Mr.  Stuart  that  it 
is  only  a  loan  and  that  I  shall  pay  it  back  just  as  soon 
as  I  can  from  my  salary." 

Doris  opened  the  door  and  then  turned  to  Fay 
and  solemnly  shook  her  head  and  the  tousled  mass 
of  yellow  curls. 

"All  right,  my  dear,"  she  said  a  little  wearily, 
"I'll  tell  him  if  you  insist  on  it  But,  heavens,  Fay, 
Jimmy  knows  that  people  in  our  business  always 
borrow  money  just  as  well  as  he  knows  they  never 
pay  it  back." 

Fay's  face  flushed  a  brilliant  scarlet.  "What  do 
you  mean,  Doris  ?  You  know  that  I'll  pay  it  back." 

"That's  all  right,"  Doris  said  assuringly,  "of 
course,  you  will.  But  you'll  learn  in  time,  a  pretty 
short  time  probably,  that  the  only  real,  satisfactory, 
commonwealth  plan  of  living  in  the  world  is  the 
present  arrangement  between  the  New  York  swells 
and  our  best  little  chorus  girls.  By-by." 

Before  Fay  could  answer  her  the  door  was  sud- 
denly closed  with  unnecessary  violence,  and  she 
heard  Doris  singing  cheerily  on  her  way  down  the 


120  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

hall  to  telephone  her  altruistic  friend,  Mr.  James 
Alexander  Stuart,  that  most  wonderful  of  all  New 
York  men,  an  eccentric  who  gave  something  for 
nothing  and  who  found  pleasure  in  the  doing  of  it. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  FEW  minutes  later  Doris  knocked  at  Fay's 
door,  and  then  opened  it  just  enough  to  show 
her  smiling  face  and  a  broad  white  felt  hat  half 
concealing  her  tousled  yellow  curls. 

"It's  all  right,  my  dear,"  she  cried,  "I'm  to  meet 
him  at  lunch  to-morrow,  and  I  told  him  to  stop  in 
on  his  way  there  and  get  some  of  those  crisp  yellow- 
backs they  give  you  at  restaurants  and  ladies' 
banks." 

Fay  looked  at  Doris  with  eyes  still  wet  and  eye- 
lids red  from  crying.  "I'm  sorry,  so  sorry.  I've 
been  such  a  fool." 

"Don't  you  worry,  now,"  Doris  urged  sympa- 
thetically. "You've  got  a  lot  to  learn  yet.  By-by, 
I'm  off  to  dinner  down-town.  Are  you  going  to 
dine  with  Fielding?" 

Fay  shook  her  head.  "Not  to-night.  Somehow, 
I  don't  feel  up  to  it,  after  that  scene  with  Lusk. 
I'm  afraid  I  might  break  down  and  tell  Porter,  and 
that  would  mean  the  end  of  both  of  us.  I  think  I'll 

121 


122  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

have  dinner  here  and  then  take  a  walk  later.  I  want 
to  be  alone.  Good  night." 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  Doris  called.  "Good 
night  to  you." 

Fay  got  up,  and  going  to  the  mirror,  gazed  for  a 
long  time  at  her  white  face  and  reddened  eyes,  and 
then  drew  the  back  of  her  hand  several  times  slow- 
ly across  her  forehead. 

"I  wonder  how  long  it's  been,"  she  said  half 
aloud,  "since  you  looked  like  that.  You're  a  sight." 

Then  she  went  out  of  her  room  into  the  hallway 
and  telephoned  Fielding  that  she  had  a  bad  head- 
ache, and  was  feeling  generally  miserable,  and 
would  be  unable  to  come  to  dinner.  The  sound  of 
his  voice  and  his  words  of  sympathy  only  increased 
the  nervousness  from  which  she  was  still  suffering 
and  she  hurriedly  said  good  night  and  rang  off.  For 
a  moment  she  hesitated  at  her  own  door,  but  she 
was  tired  of  the  close,  dark,  little  bedroom,  and  hear- 
ing Mrs.  Yorke  at  work  in  the  kitchen,  went  out  into 
the  sitting-room.  There  she  found  Mr.  Hooker  sit- 
ting as  usual  at  the  open  window,  his  eyes  half- 
closed,  and  the  evening  paper  lying  at  his  feet.  With 
a  sudden  impulse  of  pity,  due  to  her  own  unhappy 
plight,  she  crossed  the  room,  and  kneeling  at  the  side 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  123 

of  the  old  man,  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  arm  of  his 
rocking-chair. 

"What  were  you  thinking  about?"  she  asked; 
"please  tell  me." 

The  old  man  looked  up  with  a  little  start,  and  put- 
ting out  his  hand  gently,  touched  the  girl  on  the 
mass  of  hair  over  her  broad  clear  forehead.  Then, 
leaning  his  head  against  the  back  of  the  rocking- 
chair,  with  half-closed  eyes,  he  looked  up  at  the 
gray  smoke-begrimed  ceiling. 

"I  was  dreaming,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  whis- 
pered, "just  dreaming." 

"Dreaming?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes.  I  only  have  two  dreams,  which  must  seem 
very  strange  to  you  when  you  think  of  how  many 
hours  I  sit  here  in  the  same  chair,  looking  out  of 
the  same  window  at  the  same  old  tenement  house 
across  the  way.  You  see  you  are  young  and  have 
many  dreams  as  all  young  people  should  have.  I 
had  many,  many  dreams  when  I  was  your  age,  but 
just  now  there  are  only  the  two." 

With  her  soft  white  fingers  Fay  touched  those 
of  the  old  man  resting  on  his  knee. 

"Please  tell  me,"  she  said,  "what  are  the  two 
dreams  about?  I'd  really  like  so  much  to  know." 


124  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

"Would  you?"  he  said.  "I  think  I'll  tell  you  be- 
cause you  would  understand  so  much  better  than 
the  others.  No  one  understands  me  here,  except, 
perhaps,  little  Doris.  My  first  dream,  my  dear,  is 
of  a  young  man  with  long  black  hair,  and  he  is 
dressed  in  a  velvet  coat,  and  plaid  trousers,  and  a 
broad  felt  hat.  He  is  standing  on  the  steps  of  a 
wagon  which  is  painted  with  gay  colors,  and 
in  large  gilt  letters  on  the  sides  are  the  words 
'The  Great  Mozark.'  Back  of  him  there  are  two 
horses  feeding  in  a  green  field,  and  before  him 
there  is  a  broad  roadway.  The  roadway  is  filled 
with  a  great  crowd  of  farmers  and  their  wives  and 
little  children,  and  they  are  all  laughing  at  the 
funny  stories  he  is  telling  them.  And  why 
shouldn't  they  laugh,  for  there  is  a  blue  sky  over 
their  heads,  and  there  is  nothing  about  them  but 
green  pastures,  and  fields  of  waving  corn,  and  wheat, 
and  shade  trees,  and  the  curious-looking  man  in  the 
long  hair  who  tells  them  funny  stories?  Then, 
when  they  are  laughing  the  loudest,  he  tries  to  sell 
them  bottles  of  medicine  which  he  pretends  will  cure 
every  ill  under  the  sun,  and  while  they  really  cure 
none,  do  no  harm  at  all. 

"When  the  sun  has  set  and  the  people  have  gone 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  125 

to  their  homes  for  supper,  the  Great  Mozark  feeds 
his  horses  and  cooks  his  own  supper  in  a  little 
oven  in  his  wagon,  or  over  a  wood  fire  at  the 
roadside.  Afterward  he  smokes  his  pipe  and 
counts  the  money  he  has  made  from  the  bottles 
of  medicine  he  has  sold.  And  later  the  crowd  comes 
back,  only,  it  is  a  bigger  crowd  now,  and  the  medi- 
cine man  stands  between  two  flaming  torches  and 
tells  his  stories  and  bandies  words  with  the  onlook- 
ers and  sells  his  elixir  of  life.  Late  at  night,  when  he 
is  alone  once  more,  he  goes  to  bed  on  a  canvas  cot  in 
the  gay-painted  wagon,  or,  when  the  weather  is 
warm  and  fine,  he  wraps  himself  in  a  great  blanket 
and  sleeps  on  the  ground  with  only  the  stars  over- 
head. 

"At  the  break  of  day,  when  the  sun  is  just  show- 
ing itself  over  the  tree-tops,  and  the  dew  covers 
the  fields,  the  birds  sing  their  morning  songs  and 
wake  the  medicine  man  from  his  long  sleep.  After 
he  has  washed  and  dressed  the  Great  Mozark  feeds 
his  horses  and  cooks  his  own  good  breakfast.  Then 
with  the  sun  up,  but  the  fields  still  damp  with  dew 
and  the  birds  hopping  and  skipping  about  him,  he 
starts  on  to  the  next  little  village,  laughing  and  talk- 
ing to  his  horses  as  he  goes.  I  can  see  him  now  as 


126  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

he  drives  slowly  over  an  open  sunlit  road,  or  again 
along  a  silent  wood-road  under  the  boughs  of  the 
forest  trees." 

The  old  man  pressed  his  thin  white  hands  over  his 
eyes  and  gave  a  little  sigh.  "That,  my  dear  young 
lady,"  he  said,  "is  one  of  my  dreams." 

"And  the  other?"  Fay  asked. 

"The  other?  The  other  is  of  a  farmhouse  just 
like  the  one  I  used  to  know  a  very  long  time  ago, 
and  whenever  my  travels  brought  me  anywhere  near 
to  that  neighborhood  I  used  to  hunt  up  the  place  and 
lean  over  the  fence,  and  wish  that  some  day  the 
house  and  the  farm  and  the  garden  might  be  mine. 
It  was  just  an  old  whitewashed  house  with  a  broad 
porch,  and  a  couple  of  rocking-chairs  on  it,  and  all 
around  the  house  there  was  an  orchard,  and  there 
were  always  some  cows  and  chickens  fooling  about, 
and  there  was  also  one  of  those  old-oaken-bucket 
wells.  It  really  wasn't  much  of  a  place,  but  there 
was  a  wonderful  peace  that  seemed  to  brood  over 
it  and  shut  it  out  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  was 
young  then  and  full  of  deviltry,  too,  but  I  always 
somehow  pictured  myself  one  day  sitting  on  that 
porch,  and  looking  out  on  the  orchard,  and  seeing 
the  sun  set,  and  the  light  of  the  day  fade  into  twi- 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  127 

light  and  then  into  the  black  night — the  night  that 
all  of  us  must  face  sometime." 

The  old  man  sighed  and  smiled  at  Fay.  "Those 
are  my  dreams,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  went  on, 
and  then,  nodding  his  head  toward  the  open  window 
and  the  brick  building  across  the  way,  hideous  with 
its  network  of  rusty  iron  fire-escapes;  "and  this," 
he  added,  "is  my  life." 

Fay  pressed  one  of  his  hands  in  both  of  hers.  "I 
understand  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  glad 
that  you  told  me  about  your  dreams.  You  see  I 
came  from  the  country,  too.  I've  lived  there  all  of 
my  life,  and  I'm  sure  I  love  it  just  as  you  love  it." 

"And  yet  you  came  to  this." 

For  a  few  minutes  Fay  hesitated.  "You  see,  Mr. 
Hooker,"  she  explained,  "  I  wasn't  very  happy 
where  I  was." 

The  old  man  looked  down  at  the  girl's  face  and 
nodded. 

"I  don't  suppose  any  young  girls  or  any  young 
men  are  ever  quite  happy  in  the  country  until  they 
have  had  the  chance  to  get  away  from  it  for  a  time. 
They  want  to  make  a  try  for  success  in  the  big 
towns,  and  light,  and  suffer,  and  cry  as  you,  my 
dear,  I  fear  have  been  suffering  and  crying." 


128  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

Fay  glanced  tip  and  smiled  through  her  tear- 
dimmed  eyes.  "But  if  I  succeed?"  she  asked.  "Sup- 
pose some  day — mind  you,  I  say  some  day — I 
should  become  famous.  You  were  an  actor  once, 
at  least,  so  Mrs.  Yorke  says — you  surely  must  know 
what  I  mean." 

The  old  man  chuckled  and  slowly  shook  his  ven- 
erable head. 

"I  was  the  Great  Mozark,  the  Medicine  Man,  a 
faker,  a  gypsy,  but  my  own  master.  For  a  few 
weeks  I  was  an  actor,  but  I  threw  up  my  job  and 
went  back  to  the  road — not  the  road  of  the  player  of 
to-day,  but  the  broad  highway  of  the  open  country 
that  leads  to  the  village  greens.  No  dogs  of  man- 
agers and  stage-managers  for  me — I  was  as  free  as 
the  air  I  breathed.  If  it  was  my  pleasure,  I  could 
work  and  tell  my  stories  and  sell  my  elixir  of  life; 
or,  if  it  better  suited  my  mood,  I  could  camp  in  a 
grove  of  trees  and  for  days  take  my  ease  on  the 
banks  of  a  stream  of  crystal  water,  and  loaf  and 
dream  idle  useless  dreams. 

"When  I  was  an  actor  there  was  no  moment 
that  I  could  call  my  own.  During  the  day  I  was 
at  the  beck  and  call  of  a  stage-manager  who 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  129 

dragged  me  from  my  bed  in  a  stuffy  hotel  to  re- 
hearse or  to  sit  for  hours  in  a  dark  ill-smell- 
ing theater.  At  night  I  had  to  paint  my  face, 
wear  foolish  clothes,  and  read  the  lines  and  speak 
the  thoughts  of  another  man.  My  dear  young  lady, 
you  may  grow  old  in  this  profession  which  you  have 
chosen  and  some  day  you  may  become  the  most  fa- 
mous actress  in  all  the  world,  but  it  is  well  for  you 
to  remember  now  and  while  you  are  just  at  the  begin- 
of  your  career,  that  every  night  when  other  people 
are  enjoying  their  hours  of  ease  that  you  must  work. 
And  you  must  paint  your  sweet  pretty  face  for  them, 
and  even  if  you  read  the  lines  and  speak  the  thoughts 
of  Shakespeare  you  are  still  only  a  distant  echo — a 
puppet,  spouting  the  words  and  thoughts  of  some 
one  other  than  yourself,  some  one  much  greater 
than  you  can  ever  hope  to  be.  Don't  answer  me  if 
you  would  rather  not,  but  just  suppose  that  you 
were  not  satisfied  with  this  life  here  which  you  have 
chosen,  could  you  go  back  to  your  own  home  in  the 
country  ?  I  like  you  so  much,  my  dear,  that  it  would 
give  me  a  great  deal  of  happiness  to  think  that  you 
could  do  that.  Tell  me — could  you  go  back  there — 
do  your  people  still  want  you  ?" 


130  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

Fay  drew  a  long  breath  and  tried  to  smile  up  at 
the  kind  serious  eyes  of  the  old  man.  "Why,  yes," 
she  sighed,  "I  think  I  could  go  -back." 

"I  heard  something  from  Doris  of  your  life,"  he 
said,  "and  of  your  going  away  from  home.  It 
would  be  a  pity  to  cut  yourself  off  from  all  that. 
Tell  me,  if  you  don't  mind,  have  you  written  to  them 
since  you  have  been  here  ?" 

Fay  shook  her  head,  and  her  voice  scarcely  rose 
above  a  whisper.  "I'm  afraid  not.  I've  been  so  busy 
and  then,  you  see,  they  were  very,  very  much  hurt 
at  my  going  away." 

"Old  people  are  easily  hurt,"  he  said,  "just  as 
young  people  are  a  little  thoughtless  sometimes.  It 
seems  a  pity  to  cut  them  out  entirely.  It's  not  a 
pretty  sight  to  watch  the  back-log  of  your  life  burn 
to  ashes  and  make  no  effort  at  all  to  save  it.  Why 
not  write  to  them  now  and  ask  if  you  can't  go  to 
see  them?  It's  not  far — you  could  get  away  from 
your  work  on  Sunday,  surely." 

The  shadows  suddenly  faded  from  the  girl's  face, 
a  new  light  shone  through  the  misty  eyes,  and  she 
rose  quickly  to  her  feet. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  she  said,  "I'll  telegraph 
them  now  and  ask  if  I  may  spend  next  Sunday  with 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  131 

them.  Please  don't  think  that  I'm  ungrateful  to 
them,  will  you?  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that 
of  me.  " 

Fay  leaned  over  and  gently  touched  the  old  man's 
forehead  with  her  lips.  A  moment  more  and  she 
had  left  the  room  and  was  on  her  way  to  telegraph 
the  Claytons  and  was  supremely  happy  in  the 
thought  of  seeing  them  so  soon  again. 

It  was  shortly  after  dinner  when  the  answer  to 
her  telegram  arrived.  She  was  with  Mrs.  Yorke  in 
the  dining-room,  helping  the  older  woman  to  clear 
away  the  dishes,  but  wishing  to  be  alone,  she  went 
into  her  bedroom  and  carefully  closed  and  locked 
the  door.  With  trembling  fingers  she  opened  the 
envelope  and  read  the  message  that  was  signed  by 
old  man  Clayton. 

"Your  mother  has  decided  that  she  does  not  want 
to  see  you  on  Sunday  or  at  any  time.  I  am  so 
sorry." 

With  the  telegram  stretched  tightly  between  her 
hands,  Fay  read  and  reread  its  words  many  times, 
and  then  let  the  yellow  piece  of  paper  flutter  to  the 
floor.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  between  her 


132  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

palms,  her  dry  eyes  staring  steadily  into  space.  At 
last  she  stooped,  and  picking  up  the  telegram,  care- 
fully folded  it  and  put  it  in  the  pocket  of  her  dress. 
After  this  she  slowly  crossed  the  room,  and  for  a 
long  time  stood  looking  out  of  the  open  window  at 
the  dark  walls  of  the  court.  Then  she  turned  back  to 
the  stuffy  little  bedroom  with  its  gaudy  soiled  wall- 
paper, lighted  by  one  flickering  gas-jet.  With  halt- 
ing unsteady  steps  she  went  over  to  her  bureau  and 
looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and  slowly  ran  her 
long  tapering  fingers  through  the  masses  of  red  hair. 

"Well,"  she  said  to  the  white  dreary  face  in  the 
mirror,  "the  back-log  is  burned,  all  right — burned 
to  ashes.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  but  I  guess  this  isn't 
your  day.  You're  standing  on  your  own  feet  now, 
for  sure,  Fay,  and  it's  up  to  you,  just  you.  And 
you've  got  to  make  good." 

She  wondered  why  she  did  not  break  down  and 
cry  at  her  own  pitiable  plight.  It  would  have  been 
a  great  relief  to  her,  she  was  quite  sure,  but  it  was 
no  more  physically  possible  for  her  to  cry  then  than 
it  would  have  been  to  laugh  aloud.  Without  any 
effort  to  arrange  her  hair  or  to  make  herself  more 
presentable,  mechanically  she  put  on  her  hat,  and 
noiselessly  closing  her  bedroom  door  behind  her, 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  133 

walked  softly  down  the  hallway  and  let  herself  out 
of  the  flat. 

Having  reached  the  street,  she  found  that  there 
was  a  heavy  mist  and  that  a  light  rain  had  begun  to 
fall,  but  she  paid  no  heed  to  this,  and  with  lowered 
head  walked  on,  looking  neither  to  one  side  nor  the 
other.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had  come  to  New 
York  she  felt  the  loneliness  of  a  great  city.  Dur- 
ing the  last  few  hours  she  had  been  insulted  by  a 
man  whom  she  had  believed  to  be  her  friend,  and 
she  had  been  cast  adrift  from  the  only  home  that 
she  had  ever  known.  These  were  the  two  thoughts 
that  crowded  her  aching  brain  as,  heedless  of 
whither  her  steps  were  leading  her,  she  hurried 
along  the  rain-swept  deserted  streets.  Once  she  was 
nearly  run  over  by  a  cable  car,  but  deaf  to  the  curses 
of  the  motorman,  and  apparently  indifferent  to  the 
accident  she  had  so  barely  escaped,  she  hurried 
quickly  on  her  way.  At  last  her  unguided  steps  led 
her  to  Broadway,  and  the  glow  of  the  myriads  of 
colored  lights  brought  to  her  a  sudden  realization 
of  where  she  was.  The  rain  had  almost  ceased 
now,  and  she  was  conscious  that  the  passers-by  were 
regarding  her  curiously. 

As   she   stopped   at   a   corner,    uncertain    which 


134  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

way  to  turn,  a  man  approached  her  and  with  a 
smile  offered  to  take  her  home  in  a  taxicab.  Fay 
turned  on  him  with  the  fierceness  of  a  tigress  at 
bay,  and  in  her  rage  she  would  have  struck  him. 
But  the  first  glance  at  the  girl's  face  was  sufficient 
for  the  man,  and  he  hurried  on  his  way.  The  only 
thought  that  filled  her  mind  now  was  for  her  per- 
sonal protection.  It  seemed  to  her  half-crazed  brain 
as  if  she  were  the  prey  of  the  whole  merciless  city 
and  that  she  must  find  some  one,  and  at  once,  to 
help  her.  Her  first  thought  was  naturally  Fielding, 
and  on  the  bare  chance  that  he  would  be  at  home, 
she  boarded  a  car  that  she  knew  would  take  her  al- 
most to  the  door  of  the  house  in  which  he  lived. 

She  held  her  thumb  against  the  electric  button 
over  his  letter-box  in  the  lower  hallway  until,  to 
her  supreme  relief,  she  heard  the  answering  click 
of  the  lock  of  the  front  door.  Tired  as  she  was  she 
fairly  flew  up  the  two  long  flights  of  stairs  and  did 
not  slacken  her  pace  until  she  saw  Fielding  standing 
in  the  doorway  of  his  apartment.  Breathless,  she 
pushed  aside  the  hand  that  he  held  out  to  her,  and 
exhausted  from  her  long  walk,  fell  panting  into  the 
nearest  chair  that  offered  itself  to  her  tired  body.  In 
a  moment  he  was  kneeling  at  her  side. 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  135 

"Why,  Fay,  dear,"  he  said,  "you're  faint,  and 
your  clothes  are  drenched.  Tell  me  what's  hap- 
pened, dear,  please  tell  me." 

Fay  brushed  away  the  loose  strands  of  hair  that 
had  fallen  across  her  damp  forehead  and  made  a 
futile  effort  to  smile  away  Fielding's  alarm  over 
her  forlorn  condition. 

"I  had  a  terrible  headache,"  she  explained  in  a 
low  half -incoherent  voice,  "and  I  thought  a  long 
walk  would  do  me  good,  and  it  began  to  rain.  I 
don't  know,  but  I  think  I  must  have  lost  my  way. 
And  then  a  strange  man  insulted  me  in  the  street.  I 
could  have  killed  him,  but  he  ran  away  from  me  and 
I  started  on  again,  but  I  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing except  that  I  had  been  taken  for  that  kind  of  a 
woman.  And,  oh,  Porter,  I  wanted  so  much  some 
one  to  protect  me,  and  to  put  their  arms  about  me 
and  love  me.  And  then  I  thought  of  you,  and — and 
here  I  am." 

For  a  moment  she  stretched  her  arms  above  her 
head  and  then  dropped  them  again,  and  with  a  long 
sigh,  her  whole  body  seemed  to  relax  and  crumple 
up,  and  she  sank  into  the  depths  of  the  big  armchair. 

Fielding  rose  from  his  knees,  and  when  he  spoke 
it  was  much  as  he  would  have  done  to  a  spoiled 


136  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

child.  "Fay,  you're  tired  out,  and  you're  hysterical, 
and  you're  wet  to  the  skin.  What  you  need  is  a  big 
glass  of  whisky.  Then  you  can  go  into  the  bed- 
room and  put  on  some  of  my  clothes  and  dry  your 
own  in  front  of  the  gas  stove." 

Too  exhausted  to  argue,  Fay  nodded  her  assent, 
and  with  some  little  effort  sat  up  in  the  chair,  and 
pulling  out  her  hatpins,  laid  her  bedraggled  straw 
hat  on  the  table.  In  a  few  moments  Fielding  re- 
turned with  a  glass  of  whisky,  and  taking  Fay  by 
the  hands,  slowly  pulled  her  to  her  feet. 

"I've  lighted  the  stove,"  he  said,  "and  here's  your 
drink.  Now  take  it  with  you,  and  don't  drink  it 
all  at  once.  There's  a  lot  of  it  even  for  a  girl  as 
played  out  as  you  are." 

Fay  took  the  glass  of  whisky,  and  putting  it  to 
her  lips,  smiled  over  the  rim  at  Fielding.  She  took 
but  a  sip  and  then  started  for  the  bedroom,  but 
when  she  had  reached  the  door,  she  raised  the  glass 
again  to  her  host  and  took  another  sip. 

"I'm  an  a'wful  nuisance,  Porter — aren't  I?"  she 
laughed.  "But  I  had  to  talk  to  somebody — I've  had 
a  rotten  day  of  it." 

"That's  all  right,"  Fielding  said,  "hurry  up  and 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  137 

get  out  of  those  wet  things.  You'll  find  plenty  of 
my  clothes  lying  around,  or  in  the  wardrobe." 

With  a  cheerful  smile  of  farewell,  Fay  disap- 
peared through  the  door  and  closed  it  behind  her. 

Fielding  walked  up  and  down  the  room  several 
times,  stopped  to  light  a  cigarette,  inhaled  a  few 
long  puffs,  and  then  tossed  it  into  the  empty  fire- 
place. The  spirit  of  adventure  had  never  been  very 
strongly  developed  in  him,  and  Fay's  unexpected 
visit  did  not  appeal  to  him  at  all.  He  could  not 
understand  why  she  should  deliberately  break  an 
engagement  to  dine  with  him  and  then,  well  toward 
midnight,  suddenly  turn  up  at  his  rooms,  drenched 
to  the  skin,  and  bordering  on  a  condition  of  nervous 
collapse.  Always  in  the  best  of  health  himself,  he 
had  a  secret  loathing  for  sickness  in  the  case  of  any 
one  else.  Wholly  ignorant  of  the  trials  that  Fay  had 
borne  during  the  last  few  hours,  he  had  little  sym- 
pathy for  her  present  complete  state  of  exhaustion. 

To  Fielding's  carefully  regulated,  unemotional 
mind  nothing  could  excuse  a  girl  voluntarily  walk- 
ing through  the  streets  of  New  York  alone  on  a 
rainy  night,  and  especially  on  Broadway,  where 
she  would  naturally  be  subject  to  the  insults  of  any 


138  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

casual  passer-by.  He  could  not  comprehend  at  all 
why  she  had  not  gone  to  her  own  room  at  the  Yorke 
flat  instead  of  coming  to  a  bachelor's  apartment  at 
so  very  late  an  hour  in  the  evening.  And  besides 
all  this,  her  use  of  the  word  "rotten"  annoyed  him 
extremely.  Already  he  had  spoken  about  it  on 
several  different  occasions  since  she  had  come  to 
New  York  to  live,  and  he  could  not  understand  why 
she  should  not  respect  his  wishes  in  a  matter  of  this 
sort  He  was  convinced  that  it  was  one  of  the  re- 
sults of  her  companionship  with  the  girls  at  the  the- 
ater, and  decided  that  he  must  speak  to  her  at  once, 
and  beg  her  that  there  might  be  no  further  laxity  in 
her  former  standards  of  speech  or  actions. 

Suddenly  the  door  leading  into  the  bedroom  opened 
and  Fay  came  slowly  into  the  sitting-room.  She  was 
clad  in  a  long  gray  overcoat  below  which  showed  the 
ends  of  a  pair  of  turned-up  flannel  trousers,  small 
bare  ankles,  and  feet  partially  concealed  by  very 
large  bath  slippers.  The  coat  collar  was  turned  up 
and  buttoned  across  her  throat,  and  she  had  done  her 
hair  loosely  in  a  great  roll  on  the  top  of  her  head. 
Her  face  was  flushed,  her  eyes  sparkled  and  her 
lips  were  smiling  with  pleasurable  delight  at  her 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  139 

own  quaint  appearance.  The  huge  bath  slippers 
greatly  impeded  her  progress,  and  she  shuffled  with 
a  slow  skating  motion  half-way  across  the  room 
and  fell  into  the  depths  of  a  low  armchair.  She 
looked  up  at  Fielding  with  a  sly  sort  of  twinkle  in 
her  eyes  and  chuckled  audibly. 

"Don't  you  think  I  make  a  pretty  boy,  Porter?" 
she  asked.  '  'Cause  I  think  I  make  an  awful  pretty 
boy — awful  pretty.  Most  fascinating  and  insidi- 
ous." 

Fielding  stood  before  the  hearth,  and  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  looked  down  at  the 
lovely  lithe  figure  in  the  comic  ill-fitting  clothes 
and  the  face  which  never  before  had  appeared  to 
him  so  brilliantly  beautiful  as  it  did  now.  But  in 
no  way  did  he  show  his  admiration  for  the  girl's 
loveliness.  With  some  little  difficulty  Fay  suc- 
ceeded in  pushing  one  of  her  hands  out  of  the  long 
sleeve  of  the  overcoat,  beckoned  to  him  and  mo- 
tioned him  to  a  place  at  the  side  of  her  chair. 

"Thank  you,  no,"  Fielding  said  shortly.  "I  pre- 
fer to  stand  where  I  am."  And  then  suddenly  added 
the  wholly  unnecessary  question,  "Are  you  feeling 
any  better?" 


140  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

Fay  pouted  her  scarlet  lips  and  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  frown. 

"Course  I'm  feeling  better.  Anybody  could  see 
that.  I  said  to  myself  just  now  in  the  other  room 
when  I  was  looking  into  the  mirror,  I  said,  'Fay, 
you  do  look  funny  in  that  rig,  but  you  look  awful 
pretty  and  even  Porter — and  Porter  certainly's  a 
cold  proposition — will  surely  love  you  when  you 
look  like  that.'  " 

After  this  speech  Fay  looked  at  Fielding  with 
sprightly  inquisitiveness,  but  finding  that  he  was 
still  gazing  down  at  her  with  grave  curious  eyes,  she 
sighed  and  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"It's  funny  to  me,"  she  said  dreamily,  "how  all 
the  men  I  meet  seem  to  love  me — all  except  you, 
Porter.  Now,  if — " 

"Men  have  different  ways  of  showing  their  love," 
he  interrupted.  "Perhaps  it  is  because  I  love  you 
so  much  that  you  hurt  me  so  much,  and  I  can't  tell 
you  that  I  love  you." 

Fay  no  longer  smiled,  but  looked  up  at  Fielding 
with  wide  questioning  eyes. 

"Hurt  you?"  she  asked.    "I  hurt  you !" 

"Yes,"  he  said.    "You've  hurt  me  to-night." 

"How?" 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  141 

"By  coming  here  when  you  should  have  gone  to 
your  own  home.  By  wandering  alone  through  the 
streets  and  laying  yourself  open  to  being  insulted 
by  any  blackguard  who  happened  along." 

Fay  nodded.    "I  see  what  you  mean." 

"And  then,"  Fielding  went  on,  "I  told  you  not  to 
use  that  word  'rotten'.  You  didn't  say  it  before 
you  got  mixed  up  with  that  crowd  at  the  theater.  I 
don't  see  why  you  should  let  down  just  because 
your  profession  makes  it  necessary  for  you  to  mix 
up  with  people  who  happen  to  be  beneath  you  in 
education  and  breeding." 

Fay  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head  and  looked 
stolidly  up  at  the  ceiling. 

"How  do  you  know  that  I'm  any  better  bred  than 
those  girls  ?  I  don't.  All  you  and  I  know,  and  any- 
body else  knows,  is  that  I  was  washed  up  on  the 
beach.  Everything  else  about  my  fine  breeding  is 
hearsay,  tradition — no  doubt  evolved  from  the  brain 
of  Mother  Clayton.  She  wanted  to  believe  it,  and 
so  she  made  herself  believe  it  and  made  others  be- 
lieve it,  too,  I  guess.  I'd  like  to  think  that  my 
mother  was  a  lady  and — and  a  good  woman.  But, 
do  you  know  sometimes,  Porter, — that  is,  if  I  am  to 
judge  by  her  daughter — can  you  let  me  have  an- 


142  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

other  little  drink?  I'm  tired,  and  I've  had  a  bad 
day." 

Fielding  shook  his  head.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said 
significantly,  "but  it's  all  gone." 

Fay  tossed  her  chin  in  the  air,  and  her  eyes 
flashed.  "You  mean  you  think  that  I've  had  enough. 
Will  you  phone  for  a  taxi,  please?  Don't  worry, 
I've  got  the  price." 

Fielding  looked  down  at  her  with  serious  anxious 
eyes. 

"I  thought  perhaps  that  you  might  let  me  take 
you  home. " 

Fay  threw  her  head  against  the  back  of  the  chair 
and  closed  her  eyes.  "Oh,  Porter,"  she  sighed, 
"how  I  wish  sometimes  that  "you  could  understand 
me;  that  you  were  not  always  so  fine,  and  strong, 
and  hard — just  a  little  human  for  once  in  your  life." 

With  her  eyes  still  closed  she  slowly  stretched  out 
her  arms  toward  him  and  pressed  her  finger-nails 
hard  into  the  soft  palms  of  her  white  hands. 

"Kiss  me,  Porter,"  she  cried,  "kiss  me,  just  once 
on  the  lips." 

Fielding  drew  himself  to  his  full  height,  and  with 
a  slight  shrug  of  his  broad  shoulders,  crossed  the 
room  to  the  telephone. 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  143 

"No,  Fay,"  he  said,  "not  to-night.  Don't  be 
foolish." 

She  pulled  herself  slowly  from  the  chair,  and 
without  looking  at  Fielding,  pushed  her  feet  farther 
into  the  big  bath  slippers,  and  then,  with  no  more 
words,  shuffled  back  into  the  bedroom.  By  the  time 
that  she  had  dressed  herself  again  in  her  own 
clothes  the  taxicab  had  arrived,  and  Fielding  led 
the  way  in  silence  down  the  two  long  flights  of 
stairs.  He  opened  the  cab  door  and  helped  her  in. 

"You're  quite  sure  that  you  don't  want  me  to  go 
home  with  you  ?"  he  asked. 

Fay  shook  her  head.  "No,  thank  you,  Porter.  I 
think  I'd  rather  go  back  alone." 

"Good  night,  then,"  he  said.  "You're  sure  you 
have  the  fare  ?" 

For  answer  Fay  nodded  and  wearily  rested  her 
head  against  the  cushions  of  the  open  cab.  "Good 
night,"  she  called,  but  her  words  scarcely  rose  above 
a  whisper,  and  were  lost  in  the  whirring  noise  of 
the  machine,  as,  with  a  sudden  jolt,  it  started  on  its 
way. 

At  an  early  hour  the  following-  morning  Fay  was 
awakened  by  Mrs.  Yorke,  who  brought  her  a  box 
of  flowers  that  had  been  sent  by  messenger.  For 


144  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

a  few  moments  the  older  woman  lingered  about 
the  room,  in  the  hope  that  Fay  would  open  the  box 
and  tell  her  from  whom  the  flowers  came.  But  as 
Fay  showed  no  inclination  to  do  anything  of  the 
kind,  with  profuse  apologies  for  her  intrusion,  Mrs. 
Yorke  reluctantly  took  her  leave.  The  moment 
the  door  had  closed  Fay  cut  the  strings  from  the 
box,  and  opening  the  lid,  found  a  sealed  note  lying 
on  a  bunch  of  scarlet  roses.  With  trembling  fingers 
she  tore  open  the  envelope  and  at  the  first  glance 
recognized  the  card  as  Fielding's.  His  message 
she  read  over  and  over  again.  There  was  only 
one  line  scribbled  in  pencil — "I  forgive  you— 
Porter."  For  a  few  moments  Fay  did  not  seem 
to  understand  just  what  the  message  meant,  and 
then  the  hot  blood  surged  into  her  face,  and  tear- 
ing the  card  into  small  pieces,  she  threw  them  out 
of  the  open  window. 

"He  forgives  me,"  she  repeated  again  and  again. 
"Porter  forgives  me" 

With  both  hands  she  raised  the  open  box  of  long- 
stemmed  roses  high  above  her  head  and  was  about 
to  hurl  it,  too,  through  the  window.  And  then 
something  seemed  to  hold  back  her  arms,  and  with 
a  sudden  change  of  movement,  she  buried  her 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  145 

hot  burning  face  in  the  bunch  of  damp  fragrant 
flowers.  "After  all,"  she  whispered  fiercely,  "he 
did  send  me  roses,  and  it's  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  ever  did  that — and  I  love  him  for  it — yes,  I  do, 
I  love  him  for  it." 

Later  that  morning  Fay  went  to  rehearsal,  de- 
pressed and  very  unhappy.  She  was  listless  in  her 
work  and  not  sure  of  herself,  and  for  the  first  time 
was  sharply  reprimanded  by  the  stage-manager. 
During  the  long  intervals,  when  her  set  of  girls  was 
not  on  the  stage,  she  sat  alone  in  the  back  of  the 
dark  gloomy  auditorium  and  sullenly  brooded  over 
her  troubles. 

In  the  morbid  condition  of  her  mind  it  seemed  as 
if  Lusk,  the  Claytons  and  even  Fielding  had  all 
turned  irrevocably  against  her,  and  for  the  first  time 
she  seriously  doubted  the  wisdom  of  her  choice  in 
coming  to  New  York.  But,  to  her  great  sorrow,  she 
realized  fully  that  the  time  had  come  when  it  was 
too  late  to  turn  back.  Even  her  bridges  at  Pleasant- 
ville  had  been  burned  away,  and  she  thoroughly  ap- 
preciated that  the  stage  career,  which  she  had  for- 
merly regarded  as  an  experiment,  had  now  become 
an  absolute  necessity  as  her  only  means  of  liveli- 
hood. As  far  as  Lusk  was  concerned  she  had  al- 


146  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

ways  cared  but  little  for  him,  and  her  only  fear  was 
that  he  would  use  his  influence  with  the  manage- 
ment against  her. 

But  it  was  very  different  in  the  case  of  Porter 
Fielding.  His  friendship  and  the  hours  they  spent 
almost  daily  together  were  the  best  part  of  her  life, 
and  without  them  the  future,  as  far  as  she  could 
see,  offered  her  but  little  promise.  The  thought 
that  she  had  lost  him  through  an  impetuous  and 
foolish  act  of  her  own  was  intolerable  to  her,  and 
she  determined  to  see  him  at  the  first  opportunity. 
Night  rehearsals  were  to  begin  that  day,  and  as 
they  started  early  in  the  evening  it  would  hereafter 
be  inconvenient  for  him  to  dine  with  her.  There- 
fore, she  could  depend  on  seeing  him  only  during 
the  late  afternoon  or  after  the  night  rehearsal  was 
over.  But  whatever  plans  they  might  arrange  for 
the  future,  Fay  felt  that  she  could  no  longer  endure 
the  doubt  in  her  mind  as  to  Fielding's  present  feel- 
ings toward  her,  and,  therefore,  on  her  way  to  lunch 
she  stopped  at  a  hotel  and  telephoned  him  to  his 
office.  His  cheery  words  of  greeting  brought  to 
her  the  first  happy  moment  of  the  day.  After  speak- 
ing of  her  gratitude  to  him  for  the  roses  he  had  sent 
her,  she  told  him  about  the  night  rehearsals,  and 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  147 

asked  if  she  might  come  to  see  him  at  his  rooms 
that  afternoon.  His  apparent  sincere  pleasure  at 
the  prospect  of  seeing  her  so  soon  dispelled  the  last 
of  her  morbid  fears,  and  quite  happy  and  contented 
again,  she  hurried  on  to  her  lonely  lunch. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when,  still  a  little  doubtful  of 
just  what  she  was  to  say,  Fay  went  slowly  up  the 
stairs  that  led  to  Fielding's  apartment.  But  when 
she  had  reached  the  second  landing  and  saw  him 
waiting  for  her  at  the  doorway,  with  a  little  cry 
of  pleasure,  she  ran  to  him.  Once  in  the  room  and 
the  door  closed,  he  put  his  arms  about  her,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Fay,  dear,"  he  said,  "but  I  wasn't 
myself  at  all  last  night.  I  know  I  acted  like  an  awful 
brute,  and  then  I  sent  you  that  silly  priggish  mes- 
sage this  morning.  But  that's  all  over  now,  isn't 
it  ?  Just  as  if  it  never  was  ?" 

Fay  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled  her  complete 
forgiveness,  and  then  taking  him  by  the  hand,  led 
him  across  the  room. 

"Now,  Porter,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  sit  in  the 
big  chair,  and  you  get  a  cigar.  Then  bring  that 
foot-stool  over  and  sit  at  my  feet,  because  I've  got 
a  great  deal  to  say  to  you.  Oh,  I've  had  such  a  lot 


148  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

of  troubles,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  all  about  them 
last  night,  but  somehow  you  seemed  different  and 
unsympathetic,  and  I  couldn't  talk  to  you  then." 

Fielding  did  as  he  was  told,  and  when  he  was 
seated  comfortably  at  her  feet,  laid  his  hand  over 
the  girl's  and  pressed  it  gently. 

"Now,  Fay,"  he  said,  "go  ahead  and  tell  me  all 
about  all  of  your  troubles — every  one  of  them." 

But  Fay  did  not  tell  him  all  of  her  troubles. 
If  she  spoke  of  her  fight  with  Lusk,  she  knew  that 
it  could  only  lead  to  a  serious  row  between  the 
broker  and  Fielding,  as  a  result  of  which  Porter 
would  undoubtedly  lose  his  position,  and  this,  at 
the  present  time,  would  be  fatal  to  his  career.  It 
seemed  equally  useless  to  speak  of  the  hundred 
dollars  that  she  had  borrowed  through  Doris.  It 
would  only  distress  Fielding,  and  he  would  insist 
on  paying  the  money  back  from  his  own  meager 
savings,  or,  failing  in  this,  would  no  doubt  borrow 
from  Max  Lusk,  which  would  render  the  situation 
still  more  impossible  to  Fay.  Therefore,  she  began 
the  story  of  her  troubles  with  the  telegram  she  had 
sent  the  Claytons,  asking  them  if  she  might  visit 
them  over  Sunday.  She  had  brought  the  answer 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  149 

with  her,  and  when  she  showed  it  to  Fielding,  he 
read  it  over  several  times  and  then  smiled  and 
handed  it  back  to  her. 

"That's  all  right,  Fay,"  he  said,  "I'll  run  down 
myself  on  Sunday  and  fix  it  up  for  you  easily 
enough.  You  can  see  that  the  old  man  is  still  strong 
for  you." 

Fay  nodded,  but  her  effort  to  smile  was  a  com- 
plete failure. 

"Thank  you,  Porter,  but  there's  no  use.  I  know 
Mother  Clayton  and  I  know  when  her  mind  is  once 
made  up  that  nothing  can  ever  change  it.  I  tell  you, 
it's  over.  I  have  no  home,  now — nothing." 

He  took  one  of  her  hands  in  both  of  his  and 
touched  her  fingers  gently  with  his  lips. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  know  I've  got  you.  But  sup- 
pose I  should  fail  on  the  stage.  Suppose  I  should 
lose  my  place  with  this  company.  Where  could  I 
go,  what  could  I  do?" 

"My  dear  child,"  Fielding  laughed,  "there  are 
other  companies — lots  of  them." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said,  "but  there  are  not  other 
homes — that  is  for  me.  I  tell  you,  Porter,  I've  lost 
something  that  I  can  never  get  back,  never.  That 


150  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

part  of  my  life  is  over,  and  I'm  just  about  begin- 
ning to  understand  what  a  big  part  of  my  life  it 
really  was." 

She  reached  out  her  free  hand  and  laid  it  on  his 
shoulder  and  looked  steadily  into  Fielding's  serious 
eyes. 

"So  you  see,  Porter,"  she  went  on,  speaking  very 
slowly,  "that's  why  you've  got  to  be  good  to  me. 
And,  sometimes,  when  I  am  a  little  weak  or  fool- 
ish, you  mustn't  be  hard  on  me,  but  try  to  under- 
stand and  forgive  me." 

Fielding  got  up,  and  holding  out  both  hands,  drew 
Fay  to  her  feet. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  smiling,  "I  promise  you, 
Fay,  that  I'll  do  my  best.  And  now  make  yourself 
some  tea,  and  I'll  have  a  drink." 

It  was  an  hour  later  when  Fay  returned  to  the 
Yorke  flat  and  in  the  privacy  of  her  bedroom  Doris 
handed  her  a  hundred  dollars  in  crisp  twenty-dollar 
notes. 

"He  was  charmed  to  make  the  loan,"  Doris  said, 
"completely  charmed.  I  told  him  I  wanted  him  to 
meet  you  one  of  these  days,  and  he  said  that  that 
was  entirely  up  to  you." 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  151 

The  chorus  girl  started  to  leave  the  room  and 
Fay  put  out  her  hand.  "Thank  you,  Doris,"  she 
said.  "You're  a  good  friend.  Did  you — did  you 
tell  him  my  name?" 

"No,"  Doris  laughed,  "of  course,  I  didn't.  That's 
also  up  to  you." 

When  Fay  was  alone  she  stood  for  some  moments 
in  the  center  of  the  room  staring  at  the  roll  of  yel- 
low-back bills  in  her  hand,  and  then,  overcome  with 
a  sudden  loathing  for  the  money  and  herself,  she 
tossed  it  on  the  bureau.  Exhausted  from  her  long- 
day  of  work  and  trouble,  she  sank  wearily  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed  and  started  slowly  to  unbutton  her 
shoes. 

"You're  a  fool,  Fay  Clayton,"  she  mumbled;  "a 
poor  weak  fool.  I  wonder  if  your  mother  would 
have  taken  money  from  a  man  she'd  never  met?" 

She  kicked  off  her  loosened  shoes,  and  with  her 
hands  clasped  behind  her,  fell  back  on  the  bed  and 
lay  staring  up  at  the  ceiling. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said;  "I  wonder  if  she  would." 


CHAPTER  VI 

FOR  the  following  two  weeks  Fay  had  to  de- 
vote practically  all  of  her  time  to  The  Belles  of 
Barbary.  There  were  rehearsals  every  morning, 
afternoon  and  night,  and  when  not  at  the  theater  she 
was  holding  long  sessions  either  at  the  dressmaker's 
or  bootmaker's  or  photographer's.  To  her  it  was  all 
distinctly  new  and  very  exciting,  and  she  found  it 
intensely  interesting  to  watch  how  the  various  parts 
of  the  new  ppera  were  being  welded  into  a  complete 
whole.  The  principals  were  rehearsing  with  the 
chorus  and  show-girls  now,  and  as  a  rule  she  found 
them  much  more  simple  and  friendly  than  the  less 
conspicuous  members  of  the  company.  The  women 
who  were  to  play  the  principal  parts  seemed  more 
than  willing  to  help  her  in  any  way  they  could,  and 
the  men  were  all  most  kind  and  a  few  quite  con- 
spicuous in  their  attentions  to  her. 

Of  Fielding  she  saw  but  little,  but  at  least  once 
every  day  she  talked  to  him  over  the  telephone,  and 
several  times,  late  in  the  afternoon,  she  had  stopped 

152 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  153 

in  at  his  rooms  for  a  cup  of  tea.  The  in  frequency 
with  which  she  now  saw  him  seemed  only  to  add  to 
the  pleasure  of  these  occasional  visits,  and  they  were 
largely  spent  in  discussing  the  good  times  they  were 
to  have  together  after  The  Belles  of  Barbary  had 
been  tried  for  a  week  out  of  town  and  Fay  had  re- 
turned to  New  York  to  settle  down  for  the  winter. 
At  no  time  in  her  life  had  she  ever  felt  so  secure  of 
Fielding's  affection  for  her,  and  at  no  time  before 
had  she  ever  appreciated  how  very  much  the  real 
friendship  of  a  strong  man  meant  to  a  girl  who  was 
placed  as  she  was.  So,  if  Fay  and  Fielding  saw 
less  of  each  other  during  these  last  two  weeks  of  re- 
hearsals, both  of  them  regarded  the  new  arrange- 
ment as  purely  temporary,  and  both  looked  forward 
to  the  time  when  they  could  resume  the  old  order  of 
things  and  be  sure  of  seeing  each  other  at  least 
once  every  day. 

It  was  at  the  very  end  of  August  when  The  Belles 
of  Barbary  opened  its  preliminary  season  in  Atlantic 
City.  This  trying  out  of  the  new  play,  that  is,  as 
far  as  Fay  could  judge  by  appearances,  was  regard- 
ed by  the  principals  of  the  company,  and  certainly 
by  the  members  of  the  chorus,  entirely  in  the  light 
of  a  pleasure  outing,  and  not  at  all  as  a  serious  busi- 


154  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

ness  undertaking.  Even  Ben  Tolliver,  the  manager, 
and  the  men  who  were  known  or  who  were  supposed 
to  have  money  interests  in  the  enterprise,  suddenly 
dropped  their  manner  of  mystery,  became  most  ge- 
nial, and  spent  many  hours  between  the  rehearsals 
and  performances  in  the  company  of  some  of  the 
best-looking  of  the  actresses. 

It  turned  out  to  be  one  of  those  rare  occasions  in 
the  theatrical  world  when  from  the  very  beginning 
success  seems  to  be  an  undisputed  fact,  and  the  usu- 
ally much-dreaded  first  night  in  New  York  is  looked 
forward  to  by  those  most  interested  with  keen 
anticipation  rather  than  as  a  terrifying  ordeal.  The 
local  critics  and  the  managerial  experts,  even  the 
chary  speculators  who  had  come  down  from  town, 
had  agreed  that  The  Belles  of  Barbary  was  an  as- 
sured success.  Therefore,  content  was  in  the  very 
air,  and  every  one  was  happy— the  managers  be- 
cause they  saw  the  prospect  of  solid  financial  returns 
for  their  investment,  and  the  members  of  the  com- 
pany because  success  meant  a  season's  run  in  the  big 
city — six  months  at  least  in  their  cozy  flats,  instead 
of  weary  days  and  nights  of  travel,  and  stuffy  ho- 
tels and  the  crowded  dressing-rooms  of  "the  road". 

As  in  all  musical  comedies  there  was  a  certain 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  155 

amount  of  rehearsing  to  be  done  in  the  week  that 
immediately  preceded  the  great  night  of  the  open- 
ing on  Broadway.  But  to  offset  this  there  was 
plenty  of  time  for  ocean  baths,  leisurely  strolls 
along  the  board-walk,  and  pleasant  little  suppers 
that  began  after  the  performance  was  over  and 
usually  continued  far  into  the  morning  hours.  In 
addition  to  all  this,  at  least  to  Fay,  there  was  the 
excitement  of  the  actual  performance,  the  thrill  of 
the  lights  and  the  music,  and  the  rapid  chang- 
ing from  one  wonderful  costume  to  another  still 
more  wonderful.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
her  desire  to  wear  beautiful  clothes  had  been 
realized,  and  from  the  night  of  the  first  dress  re- 
hearsal it  was  quite  evident  that  the  considerable 
sum  of  money  lavished  on  Fay's  particular  dresses 
had  not  been  spent  in  vain.  Of  the  eight  show- 
girls there  was  no  doubt  that  she  was  easily  the  most 
conspicuous.  Indeed,  in  the  ensembles,  she  was 
without  question  the  most  noticeable  and  most 
beautiful  woman  on  the  stage,  and  it  was  a  collection 
of  women  which  had  been  gathered  together  largely 
with  an  eye  to  female  loveliness.  Fay  heard  her 
praises  not  only  from  the  men  and  women  of  the 
company,  but  she  saw  it  plainly  in  the  eyes  of  the 


156  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

audience.  And  besides  all  this  she  appreciated  the 
fact  that  she  was  new  to  New  York. 

The  men  who  had  run  down  from  town  to  see 
their  women  friends  in  the  company  raved  about 
her,  and  predicted  for  her  a  wonderful  success  on 
the  first  night,  at  least  a  success  of  beauty.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  had  little  to  do  in  the  perform- 
ance, but  Fay  had  always  been  naturally  graceful 
and  endowed  with  wonderful  personal  charm.  And 
now  she  carried  the  same  grace  of  movement  and 
the  same  charm  to  her  stage  work,  and  above  all 
else,  she  always  seemed  to  be  absolutely  at  her  ease. 
Added  to  this,  she  had  real  animation,  a  great  buoy- 
ancy of  spirit,  the  physical  condition  of  a  splendid 
healthy  animal,  and  the  intense  interest  in  her  work 
which  it  was  only  too  evident  that  most  of  her  fel- 
low-workers had  long  since  lost.  She  was  happy  to 
be  back  once  more  near  the  sea  where  she  could  hear 
the  sound  of  the  breakers ;  she  was  supremely  happy 
in  her  work  and  in  the  thought  that  she  was  earning 
her  own  living.  Indeed,  for  the  first  few  days  of  her 
stage  life,  the  cup  of  her  joy  was  filled  to  the  brim 
and  overflowing. 

It  had  been  impossible  for  Fielding  to  get  away 
for  the  first  night  at  Atlantic  City,  but  he  had  sent 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  157 

her  a  long  telegram,  and  after  the  performance  was 
over,  she  had  sent  him  in  return,  a  very,  very  long 
one  telling  him  of  the  play's  great  success  and  of  her 
own  superlative  happiness. 

During  the  earlier  part  of  the  evening  Belle  Gor- 
don had  asked  Fay  to  go  to  a  supper  which  some 
men,  who  had  come  down  from  New  York,  were 
giving  to  herself  and  several  of  the  other  show-girls. 
Had  it  been  in  the  city  she  would  have  refused,  as 
she  had,  heretofore,  refused  all  of  Belle  Gordon's 
invitations,  as  well  as  those  of  the  other  girls.  But 
now  the  conditions  were  different,  and  as  she  had 
already  told  Belle  that  she  knew  no  one  in  Atlantic 
City  she  could  not  well  excuse  herself  on  the 
grounds  of  a  previous  engagement.  Under  the  cir- 
cumstances there  seemed  nothing  left  for  her  to  do 
but  to  accept  the  invitation.  And,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  she  did  accept  gladly,  as,  on  such  a  gala  night, 
it  would  have  seemed  hard  indeed  to  have  returned 
to  her  hot  stuffy  bedroom  at  the  hotel. 

The  men  met  their  guests  at  the  stage  door 
and  carried  them  off  in  two  big  touring  cars  to 
the  Shellbourne.  The  large  dining-room  was  crowded 
almost  entirely  with  members  of  the  company  and 
their  friends  from  town,  and  every  one  beamed  on 


158  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

every  one  else,  and  the  air  was  full  of  congratula- 
tions on  the  great  success  of  the  new  play.  It  was 
really  like  one  very  large  and  boisterously  happy 
party.  Fay  sat  between  two  young  men,  one  of 
whom  told  her  that  she  was  even  more  beautiful  off 
the  stage  than  she  was  on  it,  and  when  the  other  had 
expressed  the  exactly  opposite  opinion,  both  youths 
gave  up  any  further  personal  remarks  and  devoted 
themselves  to  long  libations  of  champagne  and  the 
general  chorus  of  gossip. 

Miss  Gordon,  on  whom  the  responsibilities  of 
hostess  weighed  but  lightly,  waved  her  hand  to  Fay 
and  smiled  pleasantly  at  her  beautiful  guest  across 
the  table.  "It  certainly  is  good,"  she  said,  "to  have 
you  with  us  at  last,  Fay.  I  tell  you,  boys  and  girls, 
this  room  looks  just  like  an  opening  night  used  to 
at  old  Rector's.  It's  sure  one  grand  occasion.  I 
can't  see  a  thing  here  that  hasn't  been  branded  by 
Broadway.  If  I—" 

"Well,  well,"  Miss  Mazie  Kane  interrupted,  "what 
do  you  think  of  that!"  Miss  Kane  was  not  of  the 
company,  but  had  run  down  with  a  party  of  friends 
in  an  automobile  to  see  the  launching  of  the  new 
play.  In  New  York  she  was  noted  for  her  innocent 
blond  beauty,  her  ceaseless  chatter,  and  a  sustained 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  159 

devotion  to  the  predatory  rich.  "If  there  ain't  Inez 
Morrell,"  she  ran  on,  "and  Inez  is  with  Eddie  Som- 
mers.  Well,  well !  Inez  can  come  back  all  right,  and 
I'll  bet  she  is  glad  to  be  talking  to  a  man  again  old 
enough  to  have  cut  all  his  teeth.  Have  any  of  you 
noticed  the  ginks  and  rah-rah  boys  she's  been  doing 
time  with  lately?  Why,  do  you  know,  that  Inez 
Morrell  has  been  robbing  nurseries  so  long  that 
when  she  was  in  the  hospital  last  spring  the  nurses 
said  she  used  to  talk  baby  talk  all  the  time  in  her 
sleep — honest  they  did." 

About  the  table  mild  laughter  greeted  these  some- 
what personal  remarks.  "She  used  to  be  with  me  in 
The  Doll-baby  Girl,"  Miss  Kane  hurried  on.  "Yes, 
she  did." 

"I  remember  you  in  that  piece,"  one  of  the  men 
interrupted.  "In  the  first  act  you  played  a  simple 
country  lassie,  and  you  wore  a  short  white  dress  and 
a  sunbonnet,  and  you  and  some  others  played  ring- 
around-rosy.  That  certainly  gave  me  one  laugh. 
Mazie  Kane  in  a  sunbonnet  and  playing  ring-around- 
rosy  with  a  lot  of  other  criminals.  Eh,  what !" 

Miss  Kane  smiled  and  then  shook  her  head  at  the 
thought  of  the  fearful  deeds  true  art  sometimes  im- 
poses on  the  hard-working  actress. 


160  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

"What  a  troupe,"  she  sighed,  "what  a  troupe! 
That  was  the  worst  bunch  of  girls  I  ever  saw  gath- 
ered together.  Why,  when  a  gentleman  friend  asked 
me  to  make  up  a  party  for  supper,  I  was  actually 
ashamed.  There  wasn't  a  girl  in  the  crowd  I  was 
sure  had  a  decent  dress  to  wear,  or  wouldn't  take 
away  a  few  forks  or  spoons  for  souvenirs." 

"Wasn't  Teddy  Marlowe  in  that  show,"  Belle 
Gordon  asked,  "and  Edith  Carlton?" 

"That's  right,"  Miss  Kane  admitted,  "but  you 
wouldn't  want  to  introduce  Edith  to  anybody  over 
seventeen  and  Teddy  Marlowe  didn't  know  how  to 
treat  men  of  any  age." 

"She's  been  married  twice  that  I  know  of,"  Miss 
Gordon  suggested. 

"That's  all  right,"  Miss  Kane  admitted  a  little 
wearily,  "but,  believe  me,  Teddy  lacks  experience. 
And  then  Teddy  was  educated  very  much  above  her 
natural  vulgarity,  and  that's  an  awful  thing  to  hap- 
pen to  any  girl." 

For  three  hours  Fay  sipped  her  champagne  and 
in  silence  listened  to  the  other  girls  discussing  their 
women  and  men  friends.  Most  of  the  talk  appealed 
to  her  as  being  very  dull,  a  very  little  that  was 
amusing,  and  much  more  that  was  vulgar.  But  the 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  161 

lights,  and  the  music  of  the  orchestra,  and  the 
noise  and  laughter  of  the  crowded  room  appealed 
to  her  very  strongly,  and  she  was  really  glad  to 
be  there,  surrounded  by  so  much  exhilaration,  and 
not  alone  in  her  room  at  the  hotel.  Several  times 
she  wondered  what  Fielding  would  have  thought 
of  it,  and  in  her  heart  she  was  glad  that  he  was 
not  there. 

Once  she  remembered  the  advice  that  Doris  Yorke 
had  given  her,  not  to  ally  herself  with  Belle  Gor- 
don or  her  crowd  unless  she  wanted  to  be  identi- 
fied as  one  of  them,  and  for  a  brief  moment  she 
was  annoyed  at  the  thought  that  she  had  disre- 
garded her  friend's  kindly  warning.  It  was  not 
until  she  was  on  her  way  back  to  the  hotel  in  the 
automobile  that  she  thoroughly  realized,  and  the 
realization  came  to  her  then  with  great  force,  that 
the  other  members  of  the  company  in  the  restaurant 
who  had  seen  her  would,  no  doubt,  always  connect 
her  with  that  particular  set  of  girls. 

When  Fay  awoke  the  next  morning  the  sun  was 
streaming  into  her  room,  and  she  found  that  it  was 
past  ten  o'clock.  There  was  to  be  a  general  re- 
hearsal at  eleven  and  so  she  dressed  hurriedly  and 
went  down-stairs  to  her  breakfast.  It  had  always 


1 62 

been  her  custom  to  arise  early,  and  now  she  was  con- 
scious of  a  guilty  feeling  at  the  loss  of  these  morning 
hours  that  had  always  appealed  to  her  as  the  best 
of  the  day.  Besides  this,  she  was  unused  to  late  sup- 
pers, her  head  ached,  her  limbs  were  tired,  and 
all  her  accustomed  energy,  physical  and  mental, 
seemed  to  have  gone,  and  left  her  exhausted  and  de- 
pressed. On  her  way  to  the  theater  she  decided  that 
no  supper-party  was  worth  her  present  condition, 
and  now  that  she  was  away  from  the  lights,  and 
music,  and  the  excitement  of  the  crowd,  she  realized 
that  the  supper  had  not  been  very  gay  but  rather 
dull.  Fay  was  also  keenly  conscious  of  the  feeling 
that  she  had  not  been  bored  by  the  vapid  talk  and 
the  suggestive  remarks  of  her  companions  and  that 
it  would  have  been  much  more  to  her  credit  if  she 
had  not  only  been  bored  but  wholly  disgusted.  She 
found,  however,  a  certain  balm  for  her  self -accus- 
ing thoughts  in  the  argument  that  she  had  gained 
a  knowledge  of  her  fellow-workers  and  their  friends 
which  could  have  been  acquired  by  experience  and 
by  experience  only. 

In  any  case,  she  determined  that  she  had  been  to 
her  last  supper-party,  at  least  as  far  as  the  week  at 
Atlantic  City  was  concerned.  Hereafter,  however 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  163 

lonesome  it  might  be,  she  would  at  once  return  to 
her  hotel  as  soon  as  the  performance  was  over,  and 
thus  keep  herself  in  condition  for  her  work  and  the 
all-important  opening  in  New  York.  On  that  night 
she  had  already  arranged  to  take  supper  with  Field- 
ing. They  were  to  celebrate  her  metropolitan  debut, 
and  it  was  to  be  a  real  celebration — that  is,  as  far 
as  Fielding's  purse  would  permit.  But  at  that  sup- 
per there  would  be  no  one  but  themselves,  and  in 
no  way  would  it  resemble  the  heavy  eating,  heavy 
drinking,  riotous  affair  of  the  night  previous. 

For  the  first  time,  the  rehearsal  that  morning  did 
not  amuse  Fay,  and  she  was  delighted  when  it  was 
over  and  she  could  get  out  of  the  warm  theater  into 
the  sunshine  and  enjoy  the  cool  breezes  from  the  sea. 
With  several  other  girls  from  the  company  she  went 
at  once  for  a  bath  in  the  ocean,  and  after  an  hour 
spent  in  the  water  and  lying  about  on  the  hot  sand, 
she  felt  much  better  and  almost  free  from  the  effects 
of  the  supper-party. 

Late  that  afternoon  she  started  out  for  a  walk 
by  herself,  but  at  the  door  of  the  hotel  she  met  Belle 
Gordon  and  several  of  the  men  who  had  been  at 
the  supper  the  night  before.  They  insisted  on  her 
joining  them,  and  for  the  next  two  hours  she  idled 


1 64  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

away  her  time  at  the  shooting-galleries,  the  moving- 
picture  shows,  the  booths  of  the  palm-readers,  and 
at  various  of  the  other  catch-penny  devices  of  the 
board-walk.  Like  herself,  Miss  Gordon  and  her 
men  friends  seemed  much  refreshed  by  the  sea  air 
and  Fay  found  their  society  vastly  more  amusing 
than  being  alone  with  her  own  thoughts.  If  the 
men  were  at  times  a  little  boisterous  and  free  in 
their  manner  toward  her  they  actually  did  or  said 
nothing  to  which  she  could  object,  and  when  they 
insisted  on  her  joining  them  again  at  supper  that 
night  there  seemed  to  be  no  legitimate  excuse  for 
a  refusal.  This  was  "the  road"  and  she  had  been 
told  that  on  the  road  "everything  went,"  and  she 
had  also  been  told  that  if  a  girl  held  herself  aloof 
from  her  fellow-players  she  would  at  once  lose 
standing  in  the  company  and  that  unpopularity  was 
the  most  hopeless  of  all  barriers  to  success.  When 
she  was  back  in  New  York,  she  argued  to  herself, 
it  would  be  different.  Then  it  would  be  easy  enough 
to  be  friendly  with  the  girls  of  the  company  at  the 
theater,  but  when  she  was  away  from  it  she  could 
see  as  little  or  as  much  of  them  as  she  chose. 

Thus  it  was  that  Fay  cleared  away  any  regrets 
that  she  may  have  had  at  being  identified  with  Belle 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  165 

Gordon  and  her  set  of  girls,  as  well  as  the  men  who 
placed  their  automobiles  at  their  service  and  were 
forever  ready  to  play  host.  There  was,  she  easily 
convinced  herself,  plenty  of  time  to  go  back  to  her 
old  standards  when  she  had  returned  to  town,  and 
to  the  simple  inexpensive  hospitality  of  Porter 
Fielding. 

It  was  during  this  same  week,  when  Fay  was  en- 
joying the  early  fruits  of  her  stage  success,  that 
Fielding,  too,  scored  his  first  victory.  On  Thursday 
afternoon  David  Wilmerding  telephoned  him  at 
Lusk  Brothers  that  he  would  like  to  have  him  dine 
with  him  that  night  at  his  house,  and  Fielding,  of 
course,  accepted  with  alacrity.  He  rather  imagined 
that  Blanche  Wilmerding  must  have  come  to  town 
for  the  night  and  that  it  was  to  her  that  he 
was  really  indebted  for  the  invitation.  But 
when  he  had  been  shown  into  the  drawing- 
room  of  the  big  home  on  Madison  Avenue  he 
found  Mr.  Wilmerding  waiting  for  him  alone. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Fielding  had  been  at  the 
house,  and  although  much  of  the  furniture  was  con- 
cealed in  its  summer  covers,  he  was  deeply  im- 
pressed by  the  size  of  the  rooms,  the  polished  floors, 
and  the  wonderful  paintings  that  hung  against  the 


1 66  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

silk  brocaded  walls.  After  his  life  at  cheap  res- 
taurants, the  snowy  linen  of  the  dinner-table,  the 
heavy  silver,  the  row  of  thin  gilt-edged  glasses  be- 
fore his  plate,  the  shaded  candles,  and  the  great 
bowl  of  roses  in  the  center,  appealed  to  him  greatly. 
As  he  glanced  about  the  dining-room,  at  the  mahog- 
any sideboards  covered  with  massive  silver  plate,  at 
the  rich  hangings,  and  the  lace  curtains,  gently 
stirred  by  the  evening  breeze,  Fielding  was  im- 
mensely pleased  to  be  in  such  surroundings,  and  he 
made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  delight. 

"It's  quite  wonderful,"  he  exclaimed  with  the 
most  sincere  frankness. 

His  elderly  host  smiled  and  from  across  the  table 
raised  his  glass  of  sherry  to  him.  "I'm  glad  you 
like  it,"  he  said  heartily.  "I  hope  that  this  is  only 
the  first  of  many  dinners  we  shall  have  together." 

During  the  dinner,  the  conversation  drifted  in 
various  directions  from  the  news  of  the  town  to  the 
quiet  life  of  Pleasantville  and  then  back  again  to  the 
doings  of  the  day  on  Wall  Street.  It  was  not  until 
the  coffee  had  been  served  and  the  servants  had  left 
the  room  that  Fielding  learned  just  why  he  had  been 
asked  to  dinner.  For  a  few  moments  the  two  men 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  167 

puffed  silently  on  their  cigars,  and  then  Mr.  Wil- 
merding  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table, 
crossed  his  legs,  and  began. 

"Porter,"  he  said,  "I  hope  you  don't  mind  my 
calling  you  Porter;  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about 
your  work  down-town.  Are  you  satisfied  ?" 

Fielding  looked  at  his  host  a  little  confused. 
"Why,  yes.  I  think  it's  a  wonderful  business.  That 
is,  I'm  sure  it  is,  if  I  could  once  get  a  working 
knowledge  of  it.  You  see,  as  yet,  I'm  only  learning 
the  rudiments." 

Wilmerding  nodded.  "That's  it,  that's  why  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  you  now,  before  you  had  learned 
the  rudiments.  I  mean  the  rudiments  of  the  busi- 
ness as  practised  by  a  firm  like  Lusk  Brothers." 

Fielding  looked  at  his  host  and  smiled.  "You 
mean  you  don't  like  Lusk  Brothers." 

The  older  man  rolled  his  cigar  slowly  between 
his  lips. 

"That's  about  it,"  he  said.  "If  you  don't  know 
it  already,  Fielding,  you'll  soon  learn  that  there 
are  as  many  brands  of  brokers  as  there  are  of  whis- 
ky. I've  always  known  the  Lusks  in  a  business 
way,  but  it's  only  a  week  ago  that  I  took  the  trouble 


1 68  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

to  find  out  anything  about  them,  especially  Max 
Lusk,  outside  of  business.  Porter,  he's  a  bad  lot, 
believe  me,  a  thoroughly  bad  lot." 

Fielding  looked  at  Wilmerding  with  serious  ques- 
tioning eyes. 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  you  say  it.  He's  always  been 
extremely  kind  to  me,  and  I  can't  forget  that  he  gave 
me  my  chance  to  come  to  New  York." 

Wilmerding  pushed  his  chair  farther  from  the 
table  and  smiled  pleasantly  at  his  guest's  serious 
face. 

"As  far  as  I  know,"  he  said,  "there  are  three  rea- 
sons why  brokerage  firms  take  young  men  into  their 
employ.  The  young  men  are  either  relatives  who 
must  be  taken  care  of,  or  have  rich  fathers  who  put 
money  into  the  business,  or  influential  social  con- 
nections through  which  they  are  expected  to  ob- 
tain valuable  accounts.  To  be  quite  frank  with  you, 
Fielding,  I  can't  see  how  you  come  under  any  of 
these  heads.  You're  surely  not  a  relative  of  Max 
Lusk,  you  haven't  rich  parents  and,  as  yet,  at  least 
as  far  as  I  know,  and  if  you  will  allow  me  to  be  quite 
frank,  you  have  no  social  connections  of  any  par- 
ticular value.  And,  what's  more  important,  you 
never  will  have  as  long  as  you  are  in  the  employ  of 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  169 

the  Lusk  Brothers,  and  Max  Lusk  knows  that  as 
well  as  I  do.  Now,  if  you  don't  mind  telling  me, 
why  do  you  think  he  voluntarily  asked  you  to  come 
into  his  office?  It  would  be  very  interesting  to 
know,  very." 

"I  have  always  thought,"  Fielding  said,  "that  it 
was  from  sheer  kindness.  I  certainly  know  of  no 
other  reason." 

Wilmerding  smiled  genially  at  his  youthful  guest 
and  shook  his  head. 

"The  Lusks  have  never  been  conspicuous  for 
their  philanthropy,  believe  me.  But,  Porter,  I'm 
not  like  some  men  who  muck-rake  just  for  the  fun 
of  stirring  up  the  muck.  .When  I  do  dig  up  an  evil 
I  try  to  suggest  a  remedy,  and  the  remedy  in  this 
case  is  that  you  quit  Lusk  Brothers  and  come  with 
us." 

Fielding  looked  steadily  across  the  table  into  the 
smiling  eyes  of  his  host,  and  while  his  gratitude  was 
easily  evident  he  found  it  impossible,  for  the  mo- 
ment, to  find  the  words  with  which  to  express  ade- 
quately the  full  extent  of  his  feelings. 

"It's  only  fair  to  speak  to  you  now,"  Wilmer- 
ding went  on,  "of  what  no  doubt  you  are  already 
well  aware.  We  are  a  very  conservative  house  and 


1 70  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

while  we  will  pay;  you  as  much  as  you  receive  at 
present,  I  doubt  very  much  if  your  finances  will  in- 
crease with  the  same  leaps  and  -bounds  that  they 
might  with  Lusk  Brothers.  But,  mind  you,  I  say 
'might'." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  money  I  care  for,"  Fielding  pro- 
tested eagerly.  "It's  the  chance  I'm  thinking  about. 
I  certainly  don't  pretend  to  know  much  about  Wall 
Street,  but  I  do  know  just  how  much  it  means  for 
a  young  man  to  be  connected  with  a  house  like 
yours.  Really,  Mr.  Wilmerding,  I  don't  know  why 
you  should  do  it." 

The  old  man  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth  and 
smiled  grimly  at  the  ashes.  "I  do.  Because  I  like 
you,  and  I  hate  to  see  a  young  man  with  a  clean 
record,  and  a  good  golfer  to  boot,  go  to  the  devil 
surely  in  a  business  way  and  probably  in  a  social 
way  as  well.  Why,  even  Blanche  sized  up  Lusk 
when  she  saw  him  on  the  links  at  Pleasantville.  It 
was  she  who  first  warned  me." 

"I  don't  know,"  Fielding  said,  "how  I  can  ever 
thank  you  or  her." 

Wilmerding  pushed  his  chair  from  the  table  and 
got  up. 

"Then  don't  try,"  he  said.     "Break  away  from 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  171 

the  Lusks  as  soon  as  you  can.  Then  take  a  Turkish 
bath,  get  thoroughly  sterilized,  and  come  down  to 
see  me.  And  now,  if  you'll  pardon  me,  I'm  going 
to  send  you  home,  as  I've  got  a  lot  of  papers  to  look 
over  before  I  get  to  bed." 

The  two  men  shook  hands  warmly,  and  Fielding 
made  a  final  effort  to  express  his  gratitude. 

"And,  oh,  Porter,"  Wilmerding  said,  "I'd  almost 
forgotten.  Blanche  is  coming  to  town  on  Monday 
and  she  wants  you  to  go  to  the  theater  that  night 
and  to  supper  afterward.  Said  she  would  arrive  in 
town  too  late  to  dine  comfortably,  so  it  would  be 
better  to  take  supper  at  the  Knickerbocker.  It  seems 
that  that  Miss  Clayton  from  Pleasantville  is  going 
to  make  her  first  appearance  and  Blanche  wants  to 
see  her.  She  was  a  friend  of  yours,  too,  wasn't 
she?" 

"Yes,"  Fielding  said,  "a  great  friend.  We  grew 
up  together." 

And  then  for  a  moment  he  hesitated  and  stood 
irresolute,  not  knowing  what  he  should  say  further. 
Monday  night  was  to  have  been  the  night  of  the  sup- 
per-party, when  he  and  Fay  were  to  have  gone  out  to 
celebrate  alone,  to  talk  over  the  success  of  the  play, 
and  of  Fay's  success,  too.  He  knew  how  she  had 


172  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

planned  and  looked  forward  to  it,  but  in  the  face 
of  Mr.  Wilmerding's  wonderful  business  offer  it 
seemed  impossible  now  to  refuse  his  invitation. 

"Well,"  Wilmerding  asked  briefly,  "that'll  be  all 
right  about  the  theater  and  supper  on  Monday?  I'll 
tell  Blanche  it's  all  fixed,  eh?" 

Fielding  nodded  and  backed  slowly  toward  the 
door.  It  really  seemed  as  if  there  was  no  alterna- 
tive. "Yes,  of  course,"  he  said,  "and  thank  you  and 
Miss  Wilmerding  so  much.  I'll  be  delighted  to  go." 

"That's,  fine,"  said  the  broker,  "and  once  more 
good  night  to  you." 

As  soon  as  Fielding  had  reached  his  rooms  he 
wrote  a  long  letter  to  Fay,  telling  her  of  Wilmer- 
ding's offer,  how  great  a  promotion  it  meant  to  him 
in  every  way,  and  how,  with  the  attention  he  pur- 
posed giving  to  his  work,  an  honorable  and  enviable 
position  in  the  business  world  was  now  practically 
assured  to  him  for  life.  He  dwelt  at  length  on 
the  fact  that  his  first  thought  had  been  to  write  to 
her  of  his  success  because  he  knew  that  she,  more 
than  any  one  else,  had  his  welfare  at  heart,  and  be- 
cause he  wanted  her  to  be  the  first  to  congratulate 
him  on  his  new-found  happiness.  At  the  end  of  the 
letter  he  told  her  of  his  acceptance  of  Wilmerding's 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  173 

invitation  to  ,go  to  the  opening  performance  of 
The  Belles  of  Barbary  and  to  a  supper-party  aft- 
erward, and,  how,  under  the  circumstances,  he  was 
sure  that  she  would  understand  how  ungracious, 
even  impossible,  it  would  have  been  to  have  refused 
the  invitation. 

"There  will  be  so  many  nights,"  he  wrote,  "when 
we  can  have  little  suppers  and  celebrate  our  dual  con- 
quests of  New  York  that  I  know  you  will  feel  that 
I  did  the  right  thing  about  Monday  evening.  It 
seems  such  a  pity  after  all  our  plans,  but  I  am  sure 
that  you  will  appreciate  the  difficulty  of  my  position, 
and  that  you  will  be  as  generous  as  you  always  have 
been,  Fay,  dear,  and  will  as  usual  forgive  your 
friend — Porter." 

He  mailed  the  letter  that  night  so  that  Fay  should 
receive  it  at  the  earliest  moment  possible,  and  then, 
satisfied  with  having  done  what  he  considered  the 
right  and  only  proper  thing  under  the  circumstances, 
he  went  to  bed  and  to  sleep,  happy  and  content  in 
the  thought  that  success  was  within  his  grasp. 

When  Fielding  arrived  at  his  office  the  next 
morning,  it  was  with  some  slight  feeling  of  trepida- 
tion that  he  asked  for  a  few  minutes'  private  con- 
versation with  Max  Lusk.  He  could  not  well  ig- 
nore the  fact  that  it  was  Lusk  who  had  given  him 


174  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

his  opportunity  to  come  to  New  York,  and  had  since 
that  time  treated  him  with  every  mark  of  favor 
and  the  greatest  consideration.  Now,  long  before 
he  had  had  an  opportunity  to  pay  off  even  a  tithe  of 
this  debt,  and  certainly  for  no  adequate  reason  that 
he  could  give,  he  was  leaving  the  employ  of  this 
man  who  had  so  befriended  him.  In  his  little  glass 
office  Lusk  listened  to  Fielding's  story,  and  consid- 
erably to  the  latter's  surprise,  was  apparently  not  in 
the  least  perturbed  or  hurt  at  the  young  man's  news, 
but,  to  the  contrary,  heartily  congratulated  him  on 
his  change  of  employers. 

He  slapped  Fielding  genially  on  the  knee  and 
his  putty  features  were  wreathed  in  smiles. 

"Fine,"  he  cried,  "fine!  To  get  into  that  firm  is 
like  having  Wall  Street  pin  its  legion  of  honor  on 
your  chest.  Personally,  I  consider  it  a  great  distinc- 
tion to  have  Wilmerding  think  well  enough  of  one 
of  our  young  men  to  take  him  from  us.  Finish 
your  work  up  here  and  leave  just  as  soon  as  you 
are  ready.  Porter,  my  boy,  you're  in  luck  and  I 
congratulate  you." 

The  two  men  shook  hands,  and  greatly  relieved, 
Fielding  hurried  from  the  room.  Once  alone  Lusk 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  175 

chuckled  audibly,  shrugged  his  narrow  shoulders, 
and  sitting  down  at  his  desk,  reached  out  for  the 
telephone  to  resume  his  day's  work.  Fielding  had 
served  the  little  broker's  purpose,  for  he  was  the 
direct  means  of  bringing  Fay  Clayton  to  New  York, 
and  now  that  he  could  be  of  no  further  use  to  him, 
Lusk  was  only  too  delighted  to  be  rid  of  him. 

It  was  late  on  that  same  Friday  afternoon  when 
Fay  returned  from  rehearsal  and  found  Fielding's 
letter  waiting  for  her  at  the  hotel.  She  took  it  to 
her  room  and  tore  off  the  envelope  with  the  same 
little  thrill  of  pleasure  with  which  she  always  opened 
one  of  Porter's  notes.  As  she  read  of  the  news 
of  Mr.  Wilmerding's  offer  her  eyes  shone  with  the 
real  pleasure  and  pride  that  was  in  her  heart,  but 
when  she  came  to  the  part  about  the  supper-party 
the  smile  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes  vanished  as 
quickly  as  it  had  come.  Involuntarily  her  fingers 
tightened  about  the  letter,  and  she  crushed  it  in  the 
palm  of  her  hand.  Her  face  turned  slowly  scarlet 
and  tears  of  humiliation  rilled  her  eyes.  That  night 
was  to  have  been  her  night,  and  she  could  not  un- 
derstand how  any  conditions  could  exist  that  would 
induce  Fielding  to  beg  off.  Together  they  had 


1 76  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

planned  for  it  for  days,  and  she  had  been  looking 
forward  to  the  night  as  the  happiest  of  their  many; 
little  celebrations. 

Although  she  would  not  admit  it,  even  to  herself, 
the  real  cause  of  her  distress,  of  course,  lay  deeper 
than  the  mere  postponing  of  their  supper-party. 
The  effect  of  the  whole  letter  on  Fay  was  that  Field- 
ing had  permanently  allied  himself  with  the  Wilmer- 
dings,  and  it  would  have  been  more  than  human  if 
she  could  have  had  any  particular  liking  for  Blanche 
.Wilmerding.  Whether  he  really  cared  for  the  girl  or 
was  only  attracted  by  her  position  and  her  money, 
or  whether  Blanche  cared  for  him,  Fay  had  never 
known.  But  the  facts  disclosed  in  Porter's  letter 
certainly  seemed  to  show  that  the  girl  was  interested 
in  Fielding  and  his  career.  Indignant  and  miserable 
as  she  was,  Fay  at  once  made  two  sincere  efforts  to 
write  Fielding  her  congratulations  on  his  new  posi- 
tion, but  both  attempts  were  absolute  failures  and 
she  destroyed  the  letters.  Glancing  at  the  clock,  she 
found  that  there  was  still  half  an  hour  before  her 
dinner-time  and  at  once  decided  to  take  a  short  walk 
and  send  Fielding  a  telegram  of  congratulation  and 
good  wishes.  It  seemed  the  easiest  way  out  of  her 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  177 

troubles — the  telegram  would  reach  him  that  same 
night,  and  when  she  saw  him  she  would  be  in  a  mood 
better  calculated  to  conceal  her  real  feelings. 

She  went  to  the  telegraph  office,  and  having  sent 
her  message,  started  on  a  brisk  walk  to  the  hotel. 
Heedless  of  the  passing  crowds  on  the  board-walk, 
her  mind  still  full  of  Fielding  and  his  letter,  she 
hurried  on  until  she  became  conscious  that  some 
one  was  following  her  and  calling  her  by  name. 
Turning  quickly,  she  saw  the  smiling  eager  face  of 
Max  Lusk.  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  met 
him  since  the  miserable  scene  in  the  apartment- 
house,  and  her  first  instinct  was  to  turn  and  run 
away  from  him  as  she  had  then,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  look  and  in  the  cringing  attitude  of  the 
man  that  made  her  hesitate.  .With  his  hat  in  hand 
he  bowed  low  before  her. 

"I  have  come  to  ask  your  forgiveness,"  he  said 
with  a  great  show  of  humility.  "I  couldn't  stand 
it  any  longer,  Miss  Clayton — indeed,  I  couldn't. 
Won't  you  believe  me  ?" 

Had  her  mind  been  less  perturbed  than  it  was  at 
that  time,  it  is  probable  that  she  would  have  resented 
his  daring  to  approach  her  at  all.  But  in  the  con- 


i  ;8  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

fusion  of  the  moment  and  from  the  very  unexpect- 
edness of  his  appearance,  almost  unconsciously,  she 
held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

Lusk  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  so  low  did 
he  bend  over,  that  his  lips  almost  touched  her  glove. 
His  whole  manner  was  so  penitent,  even  pathetic, 
that  Fay's  first  flush  of  indignation  gave  way  to  one 
of  pity. 

"I've  been  thinking  of  nothing  else  for  days,"  he 
protested.  "This  morning  I  felt  as  if  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer  so  I  came  down  to  see  if  you 
wouldn't  forgive  me.  Please  try  to  forget  it,  and 
let's  start  again.  Won't  you?" 

For  a  few  moments  Fay  stood  looking  out  at  the 
sea,  apparently  unconscious  that  she  was  not  alone. 
In  her  heart  she  had  no  faith  in  Lusk  or  his  protest- 
ations, but  during  the  last  month,  owing  to  the 
women  with  whom  she  had  associated,  her  stand- 
ards, especially  in  regard  to  men,  had  undergone  a 
great  change.  She  disliked  Max  Lusk  and  she  dis- 
trusted him,  but  she  was  also  afraid  of  him.  Even 
in  her  brief  experience  of  theatrical  life  she  had 
learned  of  several  authentic  cases  of  girls  who  had 
lost  their  positions  through  the  influence  of  men  like 
this  one.  Suddenly  she  turned  and  nodded  to  him, 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  179 

but  her  lips  were  drawn  tight  and  there  was  no  smile 
in  her  eyes. 

"Why,  that's  all  right,"  she  said.  "Yes,  let's 
forget  it." 

Lusk's  face  beamed,  and  he  clapped  his  hands  to- 
gether. "Good,"  he  cried,  "that's  fine!  And  now 
that  it's  all  settled,  mayn't  I  walk  back  to  the  hotel 
with  you?" 

But  Fay  shook  her  head,  "Not  if  you  don't  mind," 
she  said  decisively.  "I'd  rather  be  alone  just  now." 

With  the  belief  that  his  chance  meeting  with  the 
girl  was  the  only  cause  for  her  evidently  nervous 
state  of  mind,  Lusk  smiled  his  apologies. 

"Perhaps  I  could  see  you  at  supper,"  he  ventured. 

"I'm  afraid  not;  you  see,  I've  already  promised 
some  of  the  girls  to  go  put  with  them." 

The  broker  gloomily  shook  his  head. 

"That's  too  bad,  because  I've  got  to  go  back  to 
town  to-morrow  morning.  It's  one  of  those  engage- 
ments that  can't  be  broken."  And  then  he  seemed  to 
have  a  happy  inspiration,  and  his  face  was  no  longer 
clouded  in  gloom. 

"But  how  about  Monday  night  in  town?"  he 
asked.  "A  fine  supper  to  celebrate  your  first  night 
as  a  Broadway  favorite !  What  do  you  say  ?" 


i8o  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

At  the  suggestion  Fay's  lips  broke  into  the  mere 
suggestion  of  a  smile. 

"It's  funny  you  should  have  asked  me  that,"  she 
said,  "and  just  at  this  time." 

"Funny,"  he  repeated,  "why  funny?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"But  you  will  let  me  give  you  the  supper,"  he 
urged. 

For  a  brief  moment  Fay  hesitated,  and  then 
shrugged  her  shoulders  and  nodded  her  assent. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "I'll  be  glad  to  go  to  sup- 
per with  you  Monday  night." 

"Where  shall  we  have  it,"  he  asked,  now  thor- 
oughly alert  and  delighted  with  the  prospect;  "and 
do  you  want  it  in  a  private  room  or  the  restaurant; 
and  whom  shall  I  invite?  Of  course,  you'll  want 
Porter  and—" 

"I  think  Porter  has  an  engagement  that  night," 
she  interrupted  him,  "I'm  sure  he  has.  Ask  any- 
body, and  have  it  any  place  you  like,  Mr.  Lusk.  It's 
all  the  same  to  me.  You  can  send  me  word  to  the 
theater." 

She  smiled  in  a  perfunctory  sort  of  way  and  held 
out  her  hand.  Even  Lusk  noticed  how  tired  and 
miserable  she  looked. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  181 

"Good-by,  then,"  he  said,  "until  Monday." 
"Until  Monday,"  she  repeated.     "It's  very  good 

of  you  to  give  me  a  party.     I  must  hurry  back  to 

the  hotel  now.    Good-by." 


CHAPTER  VII 

rHE  BELLES  OF  BARBARY  was  the  first 
important  offering  of  the  new  season,  and  the 
big  theater  was  crowded  with  the  kind  of  audience 
that  is  always  gathered  together  at  this  time  of  the 
year.  The  eight  boxes  were  filled  by  the  families  of 
leading  managers,  or  by  women  stars  who  had  not 
yet  opened  their  season  and  who  came  to  be  seen 
and  to  see  their  fellow-artists  at  work.  Regarding 
the  event  as  a  great  social  occasion,  the  lady  stars 
had  arrayed  themselves  in  their  most  gorgeous  rai- 
ment, and  the  wives  of  the  managers,  as  representa- 
tives of  the  commercial  side  of  the  drama,  were 
equally  conspicuous  in  the  brilliancy  of  their  plu- 
mage. 

The  front  rows  were  filled  by  men  who  were 
either  particular  friends  of  the  manager  of  the  thea- 
ter, or  who  were  willing  to  pay  exorbitant  prices  to 
the  speculators  for  such  choice  seats.  Back  of  these 
sat  the  critics,  gloomy  and  terribly  conscious  of  their 
own  importance,  and,  still  farther  back,  the  men  and 

182 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  183 

women  who  seem  to  live  only  for  first  nights  and 
who  just  manage  to  exist  somehow  somewhere  dur- 
ing the  intervals.  Young  men  with  long  hair,  ac- 
companied by  ladies  with  wonderful  coiffures 
and  gold  eye-glasses;  embryo  playwrights,  pro- 
fessional playwrights,  rival  managers,  theatrical 
lawyers,  wine-agents,  play  producers,  music  pub- 
lishers; show-girls,  still  rehearsing  and  whose 
men  friends  were  sufficiently  generous  to  provide 
them  with  expensive  seats;  play  brokers,  song- 
writers, costumers,  wig-makers,  hair-dressers, 
hotel  managers,  composers  and  librettists — all  of 
the  men  and  women  who  are  more  or  less  dependent 
on  the  theater  and  its  people  and  whose  bank  ac- 
counts are  directly  affected  by  the  success  or  failure 
of  any  new  play. 

The  greater  part  of  the  audience  gathered  early 
in  the  lobbies,  the  men  discussing  the  rumors  of 
the  success  of  the  various  artists  in  the  musical 
comedy  during  its  week  at  Atlantic  City,  and  the 
women  making  mental  notes  and  exchanging  caustic 
or  complimentary  remarks  concerning  the  costumes 
of  the  new  arrivals.  It  was  a  crowd  which  had 
come  to  be  seen  as  well  as  to  see:  the  men  for  the 
greater  part  on  business  bent,  serious  and  know- 


1 84  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

ing;  the  women  conspicuous  for  their  extravagant 
head-dress,  their  bizarre  and  inappropriate  raiment, 
the  great  amount  of  perfume  that  they  exuded  and 
that  soon  permeated  the  entire  theater.  Max  Lusk 
and  two  of  his  male  cronies  sat  in  the  front  row, 
but  Wilmerding,  less  wise  in  the  secrets  of  how  to 
obtain  the  best  places  for  a  Broadway  premiere, 
had  bought  seats  for  his  party  much  farther  back 
in  the  orchestra. 

If  the  exceedingly  encouraging  reports  of  the  new 
musical  comedy  had  given  a  more  than  usually 
joyous  and  hopeful  air  to  the  assembled  audience, 
there  was  no  such  spirit  evident  back  of  the  curtain. 
Ben  Tolliver,  the  manager,  Morley,  the  producer, 
and  the  actors  and  actresses  who  were  to  play  the 
principal  parts,  and  whom  Fay  had  seen  laughing 
and  joking  behind  the  scenes  at  Atlantic  City,  had 
suddenly  become  terribly  serious.  Now  every  one 
seemed  nervous  and  irritable  and  to  have  lost  their 
confidence  and  all  hope  of  success. 

Fay  had  gone  to  the  theater  early,  and  having 
dressed  for  the  first  act,  went  down  on  the  dimly- 
lighted  stage.  The  scene  was  already  set  and  ready, 
the  properties  were  laid  out  on  long  tables ;  nowhere 
was  there  any  sign  of  confusion,  but  rather  the 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  185 

superlative  orderliness  of  the  deck  of  a  man-of-war. 
The  whole  atmosphere  of  the  place  seemed  to  Fay 
tense  and  unnecessary  and  quite  unbearable ;  groups 
of  actors  stood  about  in  corners  of  the  stage,  silent 
and  gloomy,  and  even  the  "grips"  appeared  de- 
pressed and  apparently  hopeless  of  the  outcome. 
That  this  same  stage  would  in  a  few  minutes  be  the 
scene  of  a  riot  of  brilliant  color  and  music  and  pretty 
women  seemed  to  Fay  hardly  possible,  and  tired  of 
the  silence  and  pall  that  hung  over  the  place,  she 
hurried  back  to  the  more  congenial  atmosphere  of 
the  big  dressing-room  that  had  been  set  apart  for  the 
use  of  the  show-girls. 

Here  there  was  laughter  and  endless  chatter  and 
an  absolute  lack  of  any  feeling  of  responsibility 
whatever.  No  gloomy  doubts  assailed  the  cheerful 
outlook  of  these  charming  ladies.  Whether  the  play 
was  a  success  or  a  failure  they  were,  at  least,  sure  of 
their  salaries  for  a  few  weeks,  and  in  any  case,  they 
were  back  in  the  big  town,  at  home  in  their  cozy 
flats,  and  surrounded  by  the  kind  friends  who  would 
send  them  flowers  and  give  them  an  endless  round 
of  dinners  and  supper-parties. 

Fay  did  not  leave  the  room  until  she  was  called 
with  the  others  for  their  first  entrance.  Carefully 


1 86  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

holding  up  her  dress,  she  went  down  the  dusty  nar- 
row spiral  staircase  to  the  now  brilliantly  lighted 
stage  and  found  that  since  her  last  visit  a  great 
transformation  had  taken  place.  The  radiance  of 
a  thousand  electric  globes  seemed  to  have  dispelled 
completely  the  former  foreboding  gloom.  The  silent 
pall  that  had  hung  over  the  place  had  given  way  to 
an  atmosphere  of  keen  exhilaration.  On  the  stage 
proper  the  soubrette  and  the  second  comedian  were 
taking  their  third  encore  for  a  song  and  dance  which 
at  Atlantic  City  had  never  won  more  than  one; 
everywhere  she  looked,  about  the  broad  spaces,  be- 
hind the  scenes,  there  were  groups  of  smiling,  gaily 
dressed  chorus  girls ;  the  principals  of  the  company, 
now  apparently  sure  of  a  success,  were  gathered 
about  the  entrances  ready  to  go  on  or  waiting  to  con- 
gratulate their  fellow-workers  as  they  left  the  stage. 
Even  the  usually  hard-set  features  of  Ben  Tolliver 
were  wreathed  in  smiles  as  he  stood  in  the  prompt 
entrance  directing  the  performance.  The  play  was 
going  as  it  had  never  gone  before,  and  the  very  air 
seemed  charged  with  success. 

At  last  it  came  Fay's  turn,  and  she  and  the  other 
seven  show-girls,  with  their  wonderful  dresses  and 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  187 

flaring  hats,  and  carrying  long-handled  parasols, 
followed  the  prima  donna  slowly  down  the  stage. 
Belle  Gordon,  who  was  next  to  Fay,  turned  and 
smiled  to  her  encouragingly. 

"Don't  be  scared,  Fay,"  she  whispered,  "it's  just 
like  Atlantic  City." 

But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Fay  was  not  at  all  fright- 
ened. Her  eyes  once  accustomed  to  the  glare  of  the 
footlights,  she  found  that  Belle  Gordon  was  right 
and  that  as  far  as  she  was  concerned  a  Broadway 
stage  was  just  like  the  stage  at  Atlantic  City.  There 
was  the  prima  donna  singing  the  opening  bars  of  her 
song,  precisely  as  she  had  always  sung  them,  and 
beyond  her  were  the  footlights  and  the  musical  direc- 
tor, with  his  white  kid  gloves  and  gold-rimmed  spec- 
tacles, and  beyond  him,  rows  of  black  coats  and 
broad  shirt-fronts,  relieved  at  intervals  by  the  bril- 
liant color  of  a  woman's  dress. 

The  blurred  rows  of  faces  gradually  cleared,  and 
she  saw  the  smiling  features  of  Max  Lusk.  She 
did  not  smile  back  at  him,  but  looked  quickly  away 
to  another  part  of  the  house.  But  wherever  she 
looked,  whether  it  was  at  the  men  in  the  front  rows 
or  at  the  overdressed  women  in  the  boxes,  she  found 


1 88  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

that  they  were  looking  at  her,  and  smiling  at  her,  as 
if  to  say,  "My,  but  you're  a  very  pretty  girl,  and 
we're  glad  to  see  you  on  Broadway." 

Several  times  during  the  play  she  looked  for 
Fielding,  but  could  not  find  him.  It  was  the  one  dis- 
appointment of  the  evening,  but  she  was  confident 
that  he  was  in  the  theater  and  her  secret  hope  was 
that  he,  too,  would  think  her  as  pretty  as  the  others 
thought  her.  His  words  of  praise  were  the  only 
ones  she  really  cared  to  hear,  and  over  and  over 
again,  when  she  was  on  the  stage  and  in  her  dress- 
ing-room, it  was  with  a  sharp  pang  of  regret  that  she 
remembered  that  she  could  not  see  him  until  the  fol- 
lowing day.  The  bitterness  that  she  had  felt  toward 
him  when  she  had  received  his  letter  at  Atlantic  City 
was  gone  by  now  and  all  she  cared  for  was  to  be  near 
him,  to  have  him  tell  her  that  he  thought  her  much 
the  prettiest  girl  on  the  stage,  and  that  he  cared  for 
her  more  than  Blanche  Wilmerding  or  any  one  else 
in  the  whole  world. 

The  Belles  of  Barbary  continued  on  its  joyous 
way,  and  the  first  performance  ended  in  a  triumph 
with  glory  enough  for  every  one  concerned.  The 
audience  filed  slowly  out  of  the  theater,  happy  in  the 
the  thought  that  there  was  at  least  one  theater  in 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  189 

town  where  for  many  months  one  could  hear  pretty 
music,  laugh  at  good  comedy,  and  watch  beautiful 
girls  cavort  or  move  majestically  about  the  stage. 
Behind  the  scenes  every  one  was  happy  because  a 
long  season  on  Broadway  and  the  accompanying 
comforts  and  luxuries  of  New  York  were  an  as- 
sured fact. 

When  the  curtain  had  fallen,  innumerable  tele- 
grams of  good  wishes  and  boxes  of  flowers  were 
given  out  by  the  stage  doorkeeper  to  almost  every 
member  of  the  company.  To  Fay's  lot  fell  a  tele- 
gram from  Doris  Yorke,  and  two  bunches  of  flowers 
— one  of  roses  from  Fielding,  and  a  great  bouquet 
of  orchids  from  Lusk.  The  big  dressing-room  of 
the  show-girls  looked  like  a  flower-shop  at  Easter 
time,  but  Lusk's  was  easily  the  most  conspicuous 
offering  of  all,  and  was  enormously  admired  by 
the  other  girls.  But  it  was  Fielding's  roses  and  the 
telegram  from  Doris  that  most  appealed  to  Fay.  The 
orchids  only  served  to  remind  her  that  the  automo- 
bile of  the  donor  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  stage 
door,  ready  to  carry  her  off  to  a  supper-party  that 
she  in  no  way  fancied.  Her  thoughts  were  all  of 
Fielding  and  the  little  supper  they  had  planned  and 
she  now  thoroughly  regretted  the  sudden  impulse 


190  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

that  had  prompted  her  to  accept  Lusk's  invitation 
to  the  party  that  he  was  giving  in  her  honor. 

As  Belle  Gordon  had  also  been  asked,  the  two  girls 
went  together  in  Lusk's  car  and  met  their  host  and 
his  other  guests  in  the  lobby  of  the  Knickerbocker 
where  he  had  decided  to  give  the  supper.  A  large 
table  had  been  reserved  for  him  in  the  Armenon- 
ville  room,  just  inside  one  of  the  windows  leading 
to  the  terrace,  and  it  was  therefore  necessary  for  his 
party  to  traverse  almost  the  entire  length  of  the  res- 
taurant. 

The  place  was  crowded  with  people  who  had  been 
to  see  the  new  play  and  most  of  them  were  half 
through  their  supper  when  Lusk  and  his  friends 
made  their  entrance.  In  all  ways  it  was  just  as  the 
little  broker  would  have  planned  it — the  orchestra 
was  playing  the  song  hit  from  The  Belles  of  Barbary, 
the  men  and  women  that  filled  the  room  to  overflow- 
ing were  already  enjoying  the  exhilarating  effects 
of  good  food  and  good  drink,  and  were  extremely 
happy  in  the  consciousness  of  having  witnessed  a 
real  success.  And  what  meant  much  more  to  Max 
Lusk,  Fay  looked  quite  superb.  She  wore  the  only 
good  evening  dress  she  owned,  a  simple  white  tulle, 
but  it  showed  off  her  tall  lithe  figure  to  wonderful 


When  she  saw  Fielding  sitting  at  a  table  a  few  feet  away. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  191 

advantage.  And  as  she  followed  Lusk  slowly  along 
the  aisles,  formed  by  the  crowded  tables,  few  failed 
to  recognize  the  red-haired  show-girl  who  had  been 
the  chief  topic  of  gossip  between  the  acts  of  The 
Belles  of  Barbary. 

Bowing  to  the  right  and  left,  and  fairly  beaming 
with  satisfaction  over  a  guest  whose  beauty  at- 
tracted such  universal  attention  and  admiration, 
Lusk  proudly  led  the  way  across  the  restaurant. 
And,  to  many  there,  the  mystery,  which  during  the 
early  part  of  the  evening  had  existed  concerning 
the  exact  social  and  moral  status  of  the  new  show- 
girl, had  been  definitely  solved.  To  the  seasoned 
eyes  of  these  men  and  women  of  Broadway  seeing 
is  believing,  and  they  saw  Fay  Clayton  with  Max 
Lusk,  and  they  saw  that  Belle  Gordon  and  several 
more  of  her  luxurious  type  of  show-girl  were  mem- 
bers of  the  same  party,  and  they  therefore  believed. 

It  was  just  as  Fay  was  about  to  take  her  place 
at  Lusk's  right  that  she  first  saw  the  Wilmerdings 
and  Fielding  sitting  at  a  table  but  a  few  feet  away. 
At  the  moment  Blanche  Wilmerding  was  speaking 
to  her  father,  but  Fielding's  eyes  were  riveted  on 
Fay.  She  had  not  seen  him  since  she  had  gone 
away,  more  than  a  week  before,  and  her  first  im- 


192  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

pulse  was  to  take  the  few  steps  that  separated  them 
and  to  tell  him  how  happy  she  was  to  see  him  again, 
but  there  was  something  in  his  look  that  made 
this  simple  show  of  friendliness  impossible.  Field- 
ing's lips  were  drawn  into  a  straight  hard  line,  and 
there  was  no  smile  of  welcome  as  he  recognized 
Fay's  greeting  by  a  formal  bow.  If  Wilmerding  or 
his  daughter,  both  of  whom  she  knew  slightly,  were 
conscious  of  her  presence  they  did  not  show  it  then 
or  afterward.  With  a  sharp  little  gasp  of  wonder 
and  pain,  she  sank  into  her  chair  and  quickly  turned 
toward  the  man  sitting  on  her  right  so  that  her  face 
was  hidden  from  Wilmerding's  table.  To  Fay  the 
room  became  suddenly  unbearably  oppressive,  the 
pink  candle-shades  and  the  roses  on  the  table  seemed 
to  be  moving  slowly  up  and  down  before  her  strain- 
ing eyes,  her  lips  were  parched,  and  the  pleasantries 
she  tried  to  speak  died  in  her  throat.  The  man  on 
her  right  regarded  her  with  evident  alarm. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  a  little  faint,"  he  said. 
"You'd  better  drink  this,"  and  he  pushed  a  glass  of 
water  toward  her.  She  did  as  she  was  bid,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  more  she  had  found  herself  again, 
and  went  on  talking  to  her  fellow-guest,  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  193 

Instead  of  being  the  happiest  night  of  Fay's  life, 
as  she  had  so  carefully  planned  that  it  should  be, 
it  turned  out,  in  reality,  to  be  the  most  miserable  that 
she  had  ever  known.  As  the  long  supper  dragged 
on  its  weary  way  of  cheap  wit  and  sordid  gos- 
sip she  found  herself  constantly  casting  secret 
glances  at  the  men  and  women  of  her  own 
party,  and  then  comparing  them  and  their  man^ 
ners  and  their  clothes  with  the  people  at  the 
other  tables.  As  far  as  she  could  see,  there 
was  little  difference,  except  the  women  at  Lusk's 
table  were  perhaps  a  little  overdressed,  and  at  times, 
especially  as  the  hour  grew  late,  the  men  laughed 
loudly  and  seemed  to  want  to  make  themselves  con- 
spicuous. Several  times,  almost  against  her  will, 
she  glanced  at  the  Wilmerdings'  table,  but  it  always 
so  happened  that  Fielding  was  talking  to  Miss  Wil- 
merding,  and  when  they  started  to  leave  the  res- 
taurant Fay  quickly  turned  her  head  and  talked 
with  much  animation  to  one  of  her  own  party. 

But  at  last,  and  greatly  to  Fay's  relief,  the  supper 
came  to  an  end,  and  Lusk  took  her  and  Belle  Gordon 
home  in  his  car.  They  dropped  Miss  Gordon  at  her 
apartment  and  Fay  found  herself  alone  with  Lusk. 
The  long  evening  of  anxiety  and  excitement  had  be- 


194  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

gun  to  tell  on  her  and  she  sank  back  wearily  into 
the  corner  of  the  limousine,  her  eyes  closed,  and  her 
head  resting  against  the  cushions. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  very  tired,"  Lusk  said  with 
great  solicitude. 

"Very,"  she  said;  "the  performance  was  a  good 
deal  of  a  strain,  but  that's  over  at  last,  thank  heaven ! 
I'm  mighty  glad  I  can  never  make  another  first  ap- 
pearance on  Broadway." 

Lusk  smiled  at  her  and  gave  her  a  fatherly  pat  on 
her  gloved  hand. 

"I  tell  you  you  were  wonderful,  Miss  Clayton, 
wonderful !  You  ought  to  have  heard  how  the  men 
raved  about  you  between  the  acts.  I  was  mighty 
proud  of  my  protege,  mighty  proud,  believe  me!" 

Fay  closed  her  eyes,  and  with  a  slight  shudder, 
sank  farther  back  into  the  cushions.  She  wanted 
so  much  to  be  silent,  but  Lusk  insisted  on  talking 
ceaselessly. 

"Did  you  see  Porter  at  supper?"  he  ran  on.  "You 
know  he  has  left  us  and  gone  with  old  man  Wil- 
merding.  A  rare  chance  for  a  boy!  And  that  Miss 
Wilmerding's  a  fine  gal,  a  fine  gal,  I  can  tell  you." 

Fay  pulled  herself  slowly  from  the  depths  of  the 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  195 

cushions,  and  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  seat,  stared 
out  of  the  open  window  on  the  long  rows  of  gloomy 
foreboding  houses  flying  by  in  the  darkness. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "she's  a  fine  girl." 

"But  not  for  me,"  Lusk  chuckled,  "not  my  kind 
at  all.  I  like  women  who  work  for  a  living,  who 
really  do  something  with  their  lives,  and  who  are 
clever  enough  to  keep  themselves  before  the  public. 
What  can  you  expect  of  a  girl  who  has  everything 
thrown  at  her  all  of  her  life,  and  for  what — for 
nothing?" 

"That's  right,"  Fay  said  with  a  weary  little  sigh, 
"that  girl's  got  everything — a  home,  and  a  father  to 
look  after  her,  and  friends,  and  money — I'll  bet  she 
doesn't  have  to  borrow  from  men." 

Lusk  stuck  his  hand  deep  in  his  trousers  pocket, 
and  pulling  out  a  fat  roll  of  bills,  held  it  toward  her. 

"My  dear  Miss  Clayton,"  he  said,  "if  there's  any- 
thing I  can  do — " 

But  Fay  pushed  the  proffered  hand  sharply  from 
her. 

"Thank  you,  no,"  she  whispered.  "Please  don't 
do  that,  please  don't." 

While  she  still  spoke  the  automobile,  to  her  great 


196  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

relief,  swung  around  the  corner  of  the  cross-street 
on  which  the  Yorkes  lived  and  came  to  a  sudden 
stop  before  their  door. 

Lusk  helped  her  out  of  the  car,  and,  when  they 
had  reached  the  vestibule  she  shook  hands  with  him 
and  thanked  him  as  graciously  as  she  could  for  the 
supper-party  and  the  orchids  and  for  all  of  his  kind- 
nesses. 

"You're  sure  there's  nothing  I  can  do,"  he  ven- 
tured again,  and,  unabashed  by  the  failure  of  his 
previous  effort,  his  hand  dove  into  his  trousers 
pocket. 

"Nothing,"  Fay  laughed,  "nothing — not  now, 
anyhow.  Good  night." 

Lusk  started  to  go,  but  before  he  had  reached  the 
car  he  called  back  to  her. 

"But  don't  forget,  Miss  Clayton,  if  you  ever 
should  need  me,  I'm  your  banker." 

By  way  of  answer,  Fay  waved  her  hand  to  him, 
and  having  let  herself  in  the  door,  started  to  climb 
up  the  long  flights  of  stairs  to  the  Yorke  apart- 
ment where  she  found  Doris  waiting  for  her  in  the 
sitting-room. 

"Hello,  Fay,"  Doris  cried,  "how  was  it?  Did 
you  get  through  all  right,  or  did  you  fall  down  and 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  197 

disgrace  yourself?    And  how  do  you  like  the  stage, 
now  that  you're  a  regular  Broadway  actress  ?" 

Fay  put  out  her  arms,  and  resting  them  on  the 
girl's  shoulders,  looked  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"Doris,"  she  said,  "I  can't  tell  you  how  sweet  I 
think  it  was  of  you  to  wait  up  for  me,  but  I'm  going 
to  bed.  I'm  just  dead  beat.  The  play  was  a  great 
success,  and  they  tell  me  I  was  a  great  success,  and, 
I  guess  I  was — that  is  as  far  as  a  show-girl  can  be 
a  great  success — and  I  hate  the  stage,  and  I  hate 
everybody  connected  with  the  stage,  directly  or  in- 
directly, and  that  includes  myself." 

Doris  laughed  aloud,  slipped  her  shoulders  free 
from  Fay's  hands,  and  started  for  her  bedroom. 
When  she  had  reached  the  door  she  turned  and 
kissed  her  hand  to  the  gloomy  bent  figure  standing 
in  the  center  of  the  room. 

"Of  course,  you're  right,  dear,"  she  called,  "but 
I'm  sorry  you  found  it  out  so  soon.  Show  business 
is  a  rotten  business,  sure.  Good  night." 

Fay  had  returned  from  Atlantic  City  on  Sunday 
afternoon,  but  as  she  had  a  dress  rehearsal  that 
evening  and  many  little  things  to  attend  to  before 
the  opening,  she  and  Fielding  had  agreed  that  it 


198  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

would  be  better  not  to  try  to  see  each  other  before 
Tuesday  afternoon,  when  she  was  to  come  to  his 
rooms  for  tea.  Their  chance  meeting  on  Monday 
night  at  the  restaurant  had  been  a  contingency  that 
neither  of  them  had  considered. 

As  was  his  custom,  he  met  her  at  the  door  of  his 
apartment,  but  apparently  not  noticing  the  hand  of 
welcome  he  held  out  to  her,  she  crossed  the  room 
and  sat  down  in  her  favorite  armchair  before  the 
empty  fireplace.  Fielding  carefully  closed  the  door 
and  then  went  over  to  the  hearth,  and  leaning 
against  the  mantel,  looked  down  at  Fay's  white  face 
and  colorless  lips. 

"What's  the  trouble,  Fay?"  he  asked.  "Tell  me, 
won't  you,  please?" 

But  Fay  disregarded  his  question,  and  for  a  few 
moments  nervously  ran  her  long  tapering  fingers 
up  and  down  the  arms  of  the  chair. 

"I  thought  at  first,"  she  began,  "that  it  would  be 
better  if  I  didn't  come  to  see  you  at  all  to-day,  but 
afterward  it  seemed  wiser  for  me  to  come  and  have 
a  little  talk  with  you.  It  seemed  fairer  to  both  of 
us,  and  I  want  very  much  to  be  fair  with  you, 
Porter." 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  199 

Fielding  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  back  and 
slowly  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said. 
"I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand  you  at  all.'* 

"That  seems  a  pity,  too,"  Fay  went  on.  "Why 
were  you  ashamed  to  speak  to  me  last  night?  Was 
it  me  or  my  friends  of  whom  you  were  ashamed  ?" 

Fielding  smiled  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  didn't  care  much  about  some  of  your  friends — 
that's  a  fact." 

"A  week  ago,"  Fay  said,  "you  were  glad  enough 
to  know  Max  Lusk,  and  to  take  his  money.  Can  a 
few  days  with  Wilmerding  &  Wilson  have  changed 
your  views  so  entirely?" 

"It  wasn't  the  men,"  Fielding  replied  quickly,  "it 
was  the  women.  Fay,  you  have  no  right  to  expect 
me  to  go  from  a  girl  like  Blanche  Wilmerding  and 
speak  to  some  of  the  women  who  were  at  your  table. 
I  don't  know  much  about  the  ways  of  the  world,  but 
I  know  that  much.  Won't  you  take  off  your  hat? 
You  look  as  if  you  were  going  to  run  away  at  once. 
Better  have  some  tea.  " 

For  several  moments  Fay  did  not  answer,  but 
pressed  the  back  of  her  hand  hard  against  her  fore- 


200  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

head.  "I  can't  stay  very  long,"  she  said  at  last.  "I 
played  around  with  those  girls  in  Atlantic  City  be- 
cause I  had  no  excuse  to  offer  them  for  staying  away 
from  their  parties.  It's  very  difficult  to  be  with 
those  women  so  much  at  the  theater  and  not  be  civil 
to  them — even  friendly.  But,  at  that,  I'd  quite  de- 
cided to  cut  them  out  altogether — that  is,  when  I 
came  back  to  New  York.  And  then  I  got  your  let- 
ter, and  when  I  found  that  you  had  thrown  me  down 
for  the  Wilmerdings,  I  suppose  I  sort  of  lost  my 
head.  Lusk  turned  up — I  met  him  that  same  after- 
noon on  the  board-walk — and  I  said  I  would  go  to 
supper  with  him  last  night.  I  didn't  know  who  he 
was  going  to  have,  but  I  was  sorry  afterward  I 
hadn't  refused,  because  I  don't  like  him  very  much. 
But  after  I  got  your  letter  I  was  pretty  badly  broken 
up  and  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  doing.  You  hurt 
me  terribly,  Porter,  terribly.  I'd  looked  forward 
so  much  to  that  supper  with  you." 

Fielding  walked  over  to  her  side  and  laid  his  hand 
gently  on  her  shoulder.  "I'm  so  sorry,  Fay,"  he 
said,  "so  very  sorry,  but  I  thought — " 

"Won't  you  go  back,"  Fay  interrupted  him,  "and 
stand  where  you  were  ?  I  can  talk  to  you  so  much 
better  when  you  are  over  there.  I've  been  thinking 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  201 

it  all  out  to-day,  and  I  must  tell  you  now  before  we 
quit." 

"Quit !"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,  quit,"  she  went  on.  "You  see,  Porter,  just 
a  few  weeks  ago — it  seems  such  a  terribly  short 
time  now,  doesn't  it  ? — we  were  down  there  at  Pleas- 
antville  and  things  were  pretty  much  the  same  with 
us.  We  were  poor,  and  didn't  have  really  much  but 
each  other,  and  then  we  both  of  us  got  our  chance, 
and  we  came  on  here  to  seek  our  fortunes,  in  a  way, 
didn't  we?  And  although  that's  such  a  very  short 
time  ago,  just  look  at  the  difference.  You're  a  suc- 
cess already,  Porter,  and — " 

"Everybody  was  talking  about  you  last  night, 
Fay,"  he  said ;  "why,  all  the  people  near  us  spoke  of 
you.  They  thought  you  were  wonderful." 

"I  know  that,"  she  said,  "I  know  that  I  know 
I  looked  pretty,  but  I  didn't  care  what  any  one  else 
thought.  I  wanted  to  look  pretty  to  you.  I'd  tried 
so  hard  to  look  my  best,  and  to  learn  the  steps,  and 
I  worked  and  worked  at  rehearsals  with  the  one 
thought  always  in  my  mind — that  you  would  be 
proud  of  me.  And — and  then  when  it  was  all  over, 
and  they  said  that  I  had  done  all  right,  and  looked 
so  pretty,  and  I  got  your  roses,  and  was  very  pleased 


202  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

and  happy — then  you  refused  to  speak  to  me  in  a 
restaurant." 

She  turned,  and  hiding  her  face  against  the  cush- 
ions pf  the  chair,  broke  into  a  series  of  long  low 
sobs.  Fielding  came  and  knelt  by  her  side  and  put 
his  arms  about  her  shoulders. 

"Forgive  me,  Fay,"  he  begged,  "please  forgive 
me.  Please,  Fay,  dear,  give  me  another  chance." 

But  the  girl  motioned  him  away,  and,  in  a  few 
moments,  pulled  herself  to  her  feet,  and  then  took 
several  quick  turns  up  and  down  the  length  of  the 
room. 

"I  tell  you,  Porter,"  she  began  again,  "I  tell  you 
it's  over.  It  was  nobody's  fault.  You  didn't  know, 
and  I  didn't  know,  what  this  coming  to  New  York 
meant  to  either  of  us.  But  now  we  know  and  the 
luck,  as  usual,  is  with  the  man.  You're  in  right,  and 
I'm  in  wrong.  If  I  had  a  home  to  go  back  to  I'd 
go  back  to  it  to-day,  but  I  have  no  home.  I'm  on 
my  own  feet — I'm  alone.  I  wanted  to  make  some- 
thing of  myself,  and  look  where  I've  landed — look 
at  my  friends.  You're  right,  I  know  what  they  are. 
Even  if  my  morals  are  different  from  those  of  the 
girls  you  saw  me  with  last  night,  it's  the  job  that 
counts — it  isn't  the  individual.  I'm  just  as  much  an 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  203 

outcast  from  decent  society  as  they  are.  If  I  were 
a  shop-girl,  or  a  stenographer,  or  anything  else 
pretty  much,  I  could  hold  up  my  head,  but  because 
I'm  a  show-girl  I'm  supposed  to  be  bad,  plain  bad. 
Why,  the  very  name  is  tainted." 

"Fay,  dear,"  Fielding  said  assuringly,  "you're 
nervous  and  excited  from  overwork,  and  you've  got 
your  relative  values  badly  mixed.  To-night  we're 
going  to  have  our  little  supper-party,  and  talk  it  all 
over  quietly.  I'll  meet  you  at  the  stage  door  after 
the  performance." 

Fay  went  to  the  mirror  that  hung  over  the  fire- 
place, dried  her  wet  eyes  with  her  handkerchief,  and 
rearranged  her  hair.  Then  she  turned  to  Fielding, 
looked  frankly  into  his  eyes,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Thank  you,  Porter,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  was 
quite  calm  again.  "I  appreciate  your  asking  me, 
but  I  can't  go — you  must  understand  that.  It 
wouldn't  do  for  you  in  your  present  position  to  be 
seen  supping  alone  with  a  show-girl.  I'll  come  back 
here  sometimes  just  to  see  how  you  are  getting  on, 
but  the  old  days  are  over.  You  see,  the  trouble  was 
that  we  were  coming  to  the  crossroads  all  the  time 
and  we  didn't  know  it."  She  drew  her  hand  from 
his  and  forced  a  smile  into  her  tired  misty  eyes. 


204  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

"Good-by  to  you,  Porter,"  she  went  on,  "and  God 
bless  you,  and  good  luck  to  you.  Don't  try  to  see 
me  for  a  while,  anyhow,  and  don't  write  to  me — 
it's  better  that  way.  I  want  to  think  things  over  and 
have  time  to  forget  about — about  last  night." 

He  suddenly  held  out  his  arms  and  took  a  step 
toward  her,  but  she  motioned  him  back. 

"Please  don't,"  she  whispered,  "please  don't  touch 
me,  Porter.  You've  got  to  make  it  as  easy  for  me 
as  you  can.  Because,  you  see,  you're  a  man  and  I'm 
only  a  woman,  and — and  I  loved  you,  Porter — oh, 
good  God,  how  I  loved  you!" 

In  silent  acquiescence  to  her  wishes,  Fielding 
bowed  low  before  her,  and  Fay,  her  arm  shielding 
her  face,  and  with  unsteady  steps,  groped  her  way 
out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs. 

Had  this  interview  with  Fay  taken  place  at  almost 
any  other  time  it  would,  no  doubt,  have  made  a 
much  more  serious  and  lasting  impression  on  Field- 
ing than  it  did.  It  occurred,  however,  at  a  moment 
when  he  was  completely  engrossed  with  his  own 
affairs.  He,  therefore,  chose  to  regard  all  that  Fay 
had  said  as  the  ravings  of  a  warm-hearted,  very 
emotional  girl  who  had  just  made  her  first  appear- 
ance on  the  stage,  and,  in  consequence,  was  still  suf- 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  205 

fering  from  an  experience  that  Fielding  was  quite 
willing  to  believe  was  a  most  nerve-racking  ordeal. 
Under  the  circumstances  he  deemed  it  best  to  accept 
her  judgment  in  the  matter  and  not  to  write  to  her 
or  try  to  see  her  again  until  her  nerves  had  been  re- 
stored to  their  normal  condition,  and  until  she  was 
ready  to  take  a  less  morbid  view  of  the  future. 

And  there  could  be  no  question  that  he  was  im- 
mensely interested  in  his  new  position,  and  all  that 
it  meant  to  him  now,  and  would  mean  to  him  hereaf- 
ter. The  great  advantages  in  the  change  he  had 
made  had  been  evident  at  once.  At  no  time  were 
the  offices  of  Lusk  Brothers  ever  quite  free  from 
the  spirit  of  gambling.  The  younger  members  of 
the  firm,  the  clerks,  even  the  office  boys,  were  for- 
ever talking  of  "tips"  and  "  good  things",  and  trying 
to  "pay  expenses"  for  a  Sunday  jaunt  or  a  present 
to  a  girl  friend.  Few  came  to  invest,  but  many  to 
speculate,  and  the  marble  brass-bound  offices  were  in 
purpose  not  very  different  from  the  rooms  of  the 
casino  at  Monte  Carlo.  Even  when  the  market  was 
dullest  there  always  seemed  to  be  excitement  here, 
and  Fielding  had  but  little  liking  for  the  everlasting 
din,  the  ceaseless  confusion  and  the  loud  talk  of  the 
men  wlio  hung  over  the  ticker  from  ten  o'clock  in 


206  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

the  morning  until  three  in  the  afternoon,  and  lived 
only  on  their  nerves  and  cocktails. 

At  the  banking  house  of  Wilmerding  &  Wilson, 
there  was  no  confusion  at  all,  but  rather  an  atmos- 
phere pf  great  dignity  that  had  been  created  by  the 
traditions  of  years  of  solid  prosperity.  The  worst 
panics  known  to  Wall  Street  had  left  the  big  silent 
offices,  with  their  solemn  occupants,  unruffled,  and 
in  times  of  great  financial  stress,  the  name  of  Wil- 
merding &  Wilson  had  always  been  among  those 
who,  in  the  hour  of  imminent  peril,  came  to  save  and 
never  to  destroy.  Even  Mr.  Wilmerding  found  time 
to  interest  himself  in  Fielding's  first  duties  and  to 
see  that  he  was  properly  started  on  his  business 
career.  The  younger  men  in  the  office  were  most 
courteous  and  friendly  in  giving  him  such  assistance 
as  they  could  and  it  was  not  only  at  the  office  but 
rather  outside  of  it  that  they  showed  their  friendly 
spirit,  by  asking  him  to  their  clubs  in  town  and  to 
their  homes  in  the  country. 

It  was  not,  after  all,  very  strange  that  Fielding 
should  have  at  once  come  into  a  certain  degree  of 
popularity  among  these  new  acquaintances.  He  was 
quiet,  intelligent,  always  courteous,  had  the  manly 
good  looks  that  appeal  to  both  men  and  women, 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  207 

was  unusually  good  at  outdoor  sports,  and,  above  all, 
was  tremendously  interested  in  anything  and  every- 
thing that  happened  to  be  going  on.  He  was  learn- 
ing one  of  the  best  established  facts  in  the  social  life 
of  New  York — that  the  unattached  young  man,  at- 
tractive but  poor,  is  always  in  demand,  and  gets  ten 
invitations  where  the  young  man  with  a  million  dol- 
lars and  a  wife  is  fortunate  if  he  gets  one. 

In  all  ways  these  were  the  best  days  that  Fielding 
had  ever  known.  He  was  happy  in  his  work,  happy 
in  his  friends,  and  the  pleasure  he  found  in  this  new 
life,  crowded  with  its  many  interests,  was  only 
equaled  by  his  surprise  that  it  should  have  been 
made  so  easy  for  him,  and  that  it  should  have  come 
to  him  unasked  or  unsought.  Indeed,  it  was  prob- 
ably the  keen  pleasure  that  he  took  in  the  hospitality 
that  was  held  out  to  him,  and  his  frank  gratitude  to 
his  hosts,  which,  to  a  great  extent,  accounted  for 
his  popularity.  The  men  and  women  of  wealth  and 
of  socially  conspicuous  position,  whom  he  had 
known  heretofore  only  by  hearsay  or  through  the 
newspapers,  and  whom  he  had  always  held  in  a  kind 
of  awe,  he  found  in  reality  to  be  more  kindly  and 
more  simple  in  their  thoughts  and  in  their  ways  of 
living  than  the  people,  much  less  prominent,  whom  he 


208  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

had  known  before.  For  the  first  time  since  he  had 
come  to  New  York  he  no  longer  felt  the  lack  of 
wealth.  These  new  friends  seemed  to  be  playing  a 
game  of  give  and  take,  and  to  be  quite  willing  to 
accept  his  courtesy,  and  his  good  looks,  and  his  golf 
and  tennis  as  an  entirely  adequate  contribution. 

Of  Fay  he  heard  nothing,  and  saw  but  once.  He 
had  gone  to  a  dinner  and  later  to  a  theater-party  to 
The  Belles  of  Barbary,  and  from  the  back  of  the 
box,  he  had  watched  her  throughout  the  evening 
whenever  she  was  on  the  stage.  She  was  quite  as 
beautiful  and,  perhaps,  even  more  graceful  and 
charming  in  her  manner  than  ever,  but  whether  it 
was  on  account  of  the  women  in  the  box  with  him, 
or  for  some  other  reason,  he  found  himself  regard- 
ing her  with  new  eyes.  For  the  first  time  it  did  not 
seem  possible  to  him  that  this  girl  on  the  stage, 
dressed  in  her  gorgeous  clothes,  her  lips  and  cheeks 
rouged,  and  her  eyes  smiling  through  penciled 
lashes,  was  the  same  girl  whom  he  had  known  and 
grown  up  with  at  Pleasantville.  Once,  when  she 
stood  very  near  his  box,  he  caught  her  eye  and 
smiled  and  nodded  to  her,  but  she  give  him  no  sign 
of  recognition.  During  the  remainder  of  the  even- 
ing he  found  himself  constantly  wondering  whether 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  209 

it  was  because  she  was  still  angry  with  him,  or  be- 
cause she  was  as  morbid  as  she  had  been  about  her- 
self, and  conscious  of  the  difference  between  her 
position  in  life  and  that  of  the  woman  with  him  in 
the  box.  He  hoped  and  rather  expected  that  she 
would  call  him  up  at  his  office  the  following  morn- 
ing, but  this  hope  was  not  realized  and  he  soon  for- 
got the  incident. 

It  was  when  he  stopped  long  enough  to  look  at  her 
photographs  in  his  room  that  he  recalled  the  days 
when  Fay  had  been  nearly  all  of  his  life.  There 
were  other  moments,  too,  when  his  thoughts  turned 
back  to  her.  Often  when  he  was  at  a  late  dinner, 
surrounded  by  friends  and  all  of  the  comforts  and 
luxuries  that  money  makes  possible,  he  would  sud- 
denly remember  that  she  was  at  work,  parading  up 
and  down  the  stage,  or  changing  her  clothes  in  a  hot 
stuffy  dressing-room.  At  such  moments  he  would 
make  a  mental  vow  that  he  would  write  to  her  the 
next  day  and  seek  her  out,  whether  she  wished  it  or 
not,  and  try  to  do  something  to  make  her  life 
brighter,  and  to  have  her  share  the  happiness  that 
had  come  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  to  him.  But 
in  the  morning  he  would  regard  the  affair  with 
a  calmer  and  what  he  assured  himself  was  a  saner 


210  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

judgment.  In  the  rush  of  other  affairs,  he  would 
decide  that  it  was  better  to  leave  matters  as  they 
stood,  and  to  trust  to  the  future  to  bring  Fay  and 
himself  back  to  their  old  intimate  terms  of  friend- 
ship. 

If  Fielding  had  been  busily  occupied  during  the 
month  he  had  been  at  work  in  his  new  position,  Fay, 
on  her  part,  had  done  her  best  to  try  to  forget  the 
time  when  her  happiness  depended  solely  on  him. 
For  a  few  days  after  her  last  unhappy  talk  with 
Porter  at  his  rooms  she  had  refused  invitations  of 
every  kind,  had  wandered  about  by  herself,  gloomy 
and  depressed,  and  had  not  only  spent  the  best  part 
of  her  mornings  and  afternoons  in  the  Yorke  flat, 
but  had  returned  there  every  night  as  soon  as  the 
performance  was  over.  But  the  Yorke  family  no 
longer  interested  nor  even  amused  her.  Mrs.  Yorke 
and  Angie  Clubb  fought  with  each  other  incessantly, 
and  both  of  them  continued  to  browbeat  Doris  and 
old  man  Hooker.  At  last  Fay  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  and  in  self-defense  she  accepted  almost  any 
invitation  that  was  offered  her.  She  went  to 
lunches  with  the  girls  of  the  company  at  the  dif- 
ferent Broadway  restaurants,  where,  either  by  acci- 
dent or  previous  arrangement,  they  usually  met 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  211 

some  men  who  arrived  in  time  for  a  liqueur  and  to 
pay  the  check.  After  the  performance  Fay  usually 
had  the  choice  of  half  a  dozen  supper-parties, 
and  her  time  was  often  booked  far  ahead.  She 
never  returned  to  the  flat  now  before  two  or  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  sometimes  much  later,  but, 
as  she  had  become  accustomed  to  sleeping  until 
noon,  it  made  little  difference  as  far  as  her  health 
was  concerned. 

It  was  after  about  two  weeks  of  this  sort  of  life 
when  Doris  came  into  Fay's  room  late  one  after- 
noon and  asked  her  to  go  for  a  walk  in  the  park. 
But  Fay  begged  off  with  the  excuse  that  she  had 
to  go  down-town  early  to  dine  with  some  friends 
and  to  supper  after  the  performance  with  the  same 
crowd,  and  that  the  outlook  was  for  a  long  hard 
night.  Doris  perched  herself  on  Fay's  trunk  and 
for  some  moments  carefully  regarded  the  tips  of  her 
swinging  shoes. 

"Aren't  you  going  it  a  little  strong?"  she  asked 
at  last.  "I  know  that  it's  none  of  my  business,  Fay, 
but  to  keep  up  your  present  pace  it  seems  as  if  you 
ought  to  get  out  into  the  air  a  little  more.  When 
I  first  knew  you  you  used  to  take  such  a  lot  of  exer- 
cise." 


212 

Fay  went  over  to  the  window  and  beat  a  slow 
tattoo  with  her  fingers  on  the  window-pane. 

"That's  right,  Doris,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't  seem 
to  have  the  time  to  take  care  of  myself  any  more.  So 
many  parties,  day  and  night,  and  so  much  sewing 
and  darning,  trying  to  make  my  few  poor  clothes 
look  decent." 

Doris  stopped  swinging  her  feet  and  rested  her 
elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  chin  between  her 
palms. 

"They  tell  me,  Fay,  you're  a  great  favorite  in  the 
supper  game.  No  party  complete  without  you,  and 
that  the  men  are  all  crazy  to  meet  you.  But  don't 
you  honestly  think  that  you're  traveling  a  little  fast 
for  a  beginner?" 

Fay  turned  suddenly  from  the  window  and  looked 
Doris  evenly  in  the  eyes. 

"Just  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  she  asked. 

"I  mean,"  said  Doris,  "that  is,  if  I  am  to  believe 
what  I  hear,  and  my  information  is  pretty  good, 
that  you're  not  very  particular  as  to  the  men  you 
go  to  supper  with.  The  rah-rah  boys  I  run  with 
aren't  such  a  much,  but  they're  gentlemen.  This 
crowd  of  yours  may  be  rich — I  guess  they're  that 
all  right,  but  they're  cheap.  They  like  to  take 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  213 

you  to  the  big  restaurants  with  the  big  crowds,  like 
Rector's,  and  Churchill's,  and  the  Madrid,  because 
they  want  to  be  seen  with  the  best-looking  show- 
girl in  New  York — the  girl  they're  all  talking  about. 
If  you  never  want  to  hit  the  straw,  Fay,  why  don't 
you  take  up  with  the  real  thing — the  married  men 
and  the  smart  society  crowd  that's  afraid  to  be  seen 
with  us  theatrical  ladies,  and  who  give  their  parties 
in  private  supper-rooms,  with  their  own  band  and 
coon  singers  to  amuse  you?" 

Fay  nodded.  "I'm  going  to  one  of  those  to-mor- 
row night  Marie  Walters  is  going  to  take  me." 

"Well,  Marie's  a  nice  girl,"  Doris  said,  "that  is, 
if  you  say  it  quick.  You  don't  want  to  go  to  sleep 
when  Marie's  about.  You  probably  know  the  story 
about  her  and  the  slippers?" 

Gloomy,  depressed  and  disinterested,  Fay  shook 
her  head. 

"It  seems,"  Doris  went  on,  unruffled,  "that  some 
girl, — Maizie  Allen,  it  was, — had  on  a  new  pair  of 
slippers  at  a  supper  where  Marie  happened  to  be,  and 
the  slippers  were  so  tight  that  she  took  them  off 
under  the  table.  Well,  when  the  party  broke  up, 
Maizie  groped  about  for  her  slippers,  but  she 
couldn't  find  them  any  place.  It  really  looked  as  if 


214  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

she'd  have  to  go  home  in  her  silk-stockinged  feet,  till 
somebody  saw  one  of  the  slippers  sticking  out  of 
Marie  Walters'  pocket.  Sure,  Marie's  a  nice  girl, 
but  she's  what  my  friend,  James  Alexander  Stuart, 
calls  predatory.  Now  if — " 

"He's  going  to  be  there  to-morrow  night,"  Fay 
interrupted,  "so  Marie  says." 

"Is  he?"  said  Doris.  "That  sounds  like  a  good 
party.  I'd  like  to  go  if  I  could  get  by  with  a  Cin- 
derella first-act  make-up,  and  they  wouldn't  let  the 
clock  bark  out  the  hour  of  midnight.  What's  be- 
come of  your  friend,  Porter  Fielding?  I  haven't 
heard  you  mention  him  for  a  long,  long  time.  Quit, 
eh?" 

Fay  looked  up  at  Doris  with  eyes  that  had  sud- 
denly become  misty  and  then  out  of  the  window  on 
the  grimy  walls  of  the  court. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "in  a  way,  I  guess  we've  quit." 

Doris  slid  off  the  trunk,  and  going  over  to  Fay, 
stood  back  of  her  and  placed  her  hands  gently  on 
her  shoulders. 

"I'm  sorry,  Fay,"  she  said.  "I  shouldn't  have 
asked  you  that,  but  I  was  afraid  that  something  was 
wrong  between  you  two  the  way  you've  been  going 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  215 

it  lately.  You're  not  drinking  much  at  these  par- 
ties, are  you,  Fay  ?" 

Fay  shook  her  head.    "Not  much,"  she  said. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,  anyhow.  Most  of  the  girls  I 
know  when  they  believe  they  really  care  for  a  man 
usually  celebrate  with  a  pint,  and  then  when  they 
have  a  row  try  to  forget  it  with  a  quart.  And  then 
that  liquor  habit ! — I  tell  you  that's  something  awful. 
I  know  a  girl  in  our  chorus,  Mae  Darnton,  that's 
always  falling  in  love  with  some  prince.  And  then, 
when  he  throws  her  over  in  a  couple  of  days,  Mae 
discovers  some  entirely  new  liquor,  put  up  in  a 
queer-looking  bottle,  and  tries  to  drown  her  sorrow 
in  it  before  anybody  else  can  get  a  taste.  If  the 
Johns  only  stood  by  the  chorus  girls  instead  of 
ditching  them  all  the  time,  I  believe  the  dealers  in 
liquors  would  be  driven  out  of  business." 

She  opened  the  door  and  blew  a  kiss  toward  Fay. 

"Have  a  good  time  at  your  party,  dear,"  she  said, 
"and  don't  forget  you're  the  best-looking  thing  on 
Broadway.  Nurse  it,  though,  and  try  to  hold  on  to 
your  pink  cheeks,  and  cut  the  hicks,  and  the  kikes, 
and  the  ginks,  and  don't  forget  to  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  James  Alexander  Stuart." 


216  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

"Good-by,"  Fay  called,  "and  thank  you.  You're 
a  wise  kid." 

Doris  smiled  and  shook  her  head  in  protest. 

"Not  so  very  wise  at  that,"  she  said;  "but  I've 
been  eating  caviar  and  alligator  pears  with  those 
brigands  and  child-stealers,  who  give  the  hard  work- 
ing chorus  girl  dinners  and  suppers,  for  a  long  time. 
Broadway  may  be  the  Great  White  Way,  my  dear, 
and  it  surely  is  well  lit  up,  especially  at  night.  But 
I'll  tell  you,  Fay,  it's  an  awful  crooked  street,  espe- 
cially just  above  Forty-second  Street." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  supper-party  to  which  Fay  had  been  in- 
vited for  the  evening  following,  and  which 
was  to  be  at  Martin's,  was,  by  all  odds,  the  most 
costly,  and  in  all  ways,  the  most  interesting  social 
event  that  she  had  yet  attended.  There  were  two 
large  adjoining  rooms,  one  of  which  was  cleared 
for  dancing,  while  the  other  was  devoted  to  a  buffet 
and  numerous  small  tables.  There  were  bunches 
of  roses  and  big  green  plants  scattered  about  in 
great  profusion,  and  there  were  many  comfortable 
lounging  chairs  and  divans  for  those  who  preferred 
tete-a-tetes  to  dancing.  For  music  there  was  a 
Hungarian  band  and  a  quartette  of  coon  shouters, 
and  from  the  very  moment  of  her  arrival  until  that 
of  her  leave-taking,  many  hours  later,  Fay  always 
seemed  conscious  of  the  presence  of  a  waiter,  bow- 
ing low  before  her,  and  offering  her  a  glass  of  cham- 
pagne. It  was  the  kind  of  a  party  that  the  very 
rich  young  men  of  New  York  like  to  give  because 
it  satisfies  their  taste  for  the  good  things  to  which 

217 


218  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

they  are  used,  and  gratifies  their  spirit  of  hospitality 
in  offering  to  fair  young  women  of  the  stage  luxu- 
ries to  which  the  young  women  themselves  have 
been  wholly  unaccustomed,  and  of  which  their 
mothers,  who  probably  scrubbed  floors  or  washed 
clothes  for  an  honest  living,  never  even  dreamed. 

Fay  knew  at  least  half  of  the  thirty  women  pres- 
ent, as  they  were  either  from  her  own  company  or 
she  had  met  them  at  various  supper-parties,  but  the 
men  were  all  strangers  to  her.  Even  to  her  inex- 
perienced eyes  it  was  not  difficult  to  see  that  they 
were  of  a  different  class  from  the  kind  of  men  she 
had  met  since  coming  to  New  York.  The  girls  at 
the  theater  had  assured  her  that  at  this  particular 
party  she  would  meet  only  "swells",  and  the  girls 
were  evidently  right.  But  even  if  Fay  was  a  stranger 
when  she  entered  the  big  room,  there  was  surely 
nothing  left  undone  to  make  her  feel  very  much  at 
home  at  once,  and  that  she  was  among  friends.  In 
a  few  minutes  she  had  met  every  man  in  the  place, 
and  thereafter,  at  least  as  far  as  the  men  were  con- 
cerned, she  was  beyond  question  the  most  popular 
woman  in  the  room. 

Fay  not  only  danced  very  well,  but  she  really 
enjoyed  it,  and,  in  consequence,  she  was  never 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  219 

allowed  to  stop  until  sheer  exhaustion  forced  her 
to  rest.  At  one  o'clock  there  was  an  elaborate  sup- 
per, and  Fay,  with  half  a  dozen  others  who  had 
been  much  together  during  the  early  part  of  the 
evening,  gathered  about  one  of  the  tables.  For  the 
next  hour  she  ate  and  drank  the  good  things  put 
before  her,  listened  to  the  coon  quartette  sing  comic 
songs,  joined  in  the  choruses  whether  she  knew  the 
words  or  not,  and  had  a  thoroughly  amusing  and 
happy  time. 

Once,  just  before  supper,  Fay  had  danced  with 
Jimmy  Stuart,  but  it  was  some  hours  later  when  she 
found  her  first  opportunity  to  talk  to  him  alone.  He 
had  asked  her  to  dance  with  him  again,  but  she 
begged  off  on  the  plea  of  being  thoroughly  tired  out, 
and  suggested  that  they  go  some  place  for  a 
quiet  talk.  Stuart  seemed  delighted  with  the  idea 
and  led  her  to  a  little  room  just  across  the  hallway 
from  the  ballroom,  where  it  was  comparatively 
quiet  and  where,  at  least,  they  were  quite  alone.  Fay 
made  herself  comfortable  in  the  depths  of  a  low 
divan,  and  Stuart  sat  in  a  big  armchair  facing 
her.  He  was  a  rather  heavily  built  young  man,  with 
a  hard  muscular  figure,  a  strong  if  not  very 
handsome  face,  and  gray  eyes  that  were  curiously 


220  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

contradictory  because,  while  they  were  serious  eyes, 
they  always  seemed  to  be  smiling  and  inviting  one's 
confidence.  He  was  in  many  ways  very  much  like 
the  other  young  men  at  the  party  except  that  either 
he  did  not  drink  champagne  or  did  not  show  the 
effects  of  it,  and  he  was  chiefly  conspicuous  for  a 
certain  old-time  courtesy  in  his  manner,  which  to 
women  was  as  charming  as  it  was  unusual. 

"I  wanted  to  meet  you  very  much,  Mr.  Stuart," 
Fay  began,  "because  I  owe  you  such  a  lot." 

Stuart  smiled  and  sank  back  in  his  chair. 

"That's  fine,"  he  laughed,  "and  most  unexpected. 
How  much  do  you  owe  me  ?" 

Fay  looked  him  evenly  in  the  eyes.  "One  hun- 
dred dollars." 

Stuart  took  out  his  cigarette  case,  lighted  a  cig- 
arette, and  blew  a  few  rings  at  a  pair  of  amorous 
cupids  on  the  frescoed  ceiling. 

"That's  very  interesting,"  he  said.  "Somehow  I 
never  thought  of  it  as  a  cash  debt.  When  did  I  have 
the  honor  of  loaning  you  a  hundred  dollars?" 

For  some  reason  Fay  did  not  find  the  confession 
as  easy  as  she  had  anticipated,  or,  at  least,  hoped 
that  it  might  be,  and  she  spoke  slowly  and  with 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  221 

evident  signs  of  embarrassment.  "I  borrowed  it 
anonymously  through  Doris  Yorke.  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  how  very  grateful  I  was,  and  to  assure  you  that 
it  was  a  loan  and  not  a  gift  of — of  chartiy.  It  came 
at  a  time  when  I  had  to  have  money,  and  it  saved 
me  the  humiliation  of  going  to  others  who  might  not 
have  been  so  kind — perhaps  less  exacting  than  you 
have  been.  It's  not  very  easy  for  me  to  explain,  as 
you  can  see,  but  perhaps  you  will  understand." 

Fay  looked  up  at  Stuart  and  found  that  he  was 
regarding  her  with  an  apparently  new  interest. 

"Of  course,  I  understand,"  he  said.  "Doris  told 
me  something  about  you  and  your  story,  although 
she  didn't  tell  me  your  name." 

"Just  what  did  Doris  tell  you?"  Fay  asked. 

Stuart  hesitated  for  a  moment,  blew  a  few  more 
rings  at  the  amorous  cupids,  and  then :  "You  must 
understand,  Miss  Clayton,  that  our  little  friend, 
Doris,  did  not  tell  me  your  name." 

Fay  nodded.    "I  understand — please  go  on." 

"It  seems,"  Stuart  began,  "that  a  fearful  bounder 
here  in  town,  one  Max  Lusk,  was  very  anxious,  for 
one  reason  or  another,  to  get  you  to  New  York.  He 
was  so  anxious  to  get  you  here  that  he  gave  a  young 


222  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

man  a  position  in  his  office  because  he  did  not  be- 
lieve that  you  would  come  unless  this  young  man 
happened  to  be  living  here." 

He  looked  at  Fay  and  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
staring  into  his,  and  that  her  face  had  gone  quite 
white. 

"Is  that  news  to  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "please  go  on,  please." 

"Well,  then  it  seems,"  Stuart  continued  cheer- 
fully, "that  you  spent  your  savings  and  were  about 
to  go  to  Lusk  when  he  insulted  you.  It  also  seems 
that  you  were  properly  indignant,  and  not  knowing 
much  of  Lusk  or  his  kind,  were,  also,  greatly  sur- 
prised. But  Doris  Yorke  knew  that  people  soon 
become  callous  to  all  kinds  of  things  in  this  big 
cruel  town;  and  knowing  also  how  greatly  you 
needed  the  money,  she  feared  that  you  would  pardon 
Lusk  and  would  still  go  to  him  for  a  loan.  To  pre- 
vent this  she  came  to  me.  Under  the  circumstances, 
I  can  not  consider  my  action  in  the  matter  particu- 
larly praiseworthy.  You  see  I  knew  Max  Lusk, 
even  if  I  didn't  know  you." 

Fay  looked  at  Stuart  and  tried  to  smile  but  the 
effort  was  not  much  of  a  success. 

"I'm  very  grateful  to  you,  Mr.  Stuart,"  she  said. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  223 

"I  didn't  know  how  really  grateful  I  was  before." 

Stuart  suddenly  became  serious.  "That's  all  right, 
but  as  long  as  we  are  telling  each  other  our  right 
names,  I'm  going  to  ask  you  a  very  impertinent 
question.  Did  you  pardon  Lusk  ?" 

"Yes,  I  pardoned  him.  It's  impossible  to  explain 
the  conditions  but  he  came  to  me  at  a  moment  when 
I  wasn't  myself — I  wasn't  myself  at  all.  He'd  al- 
ways been  very  kind  to  me  except — except  that  one 
time.  I  didn't  know  then  why  he  brought  me  to 
New  York." 

"One  more  question,"  Stuart  said.  "Forgive  me 
for  asking,  but  have  you  ever  borrowed  money  from 
him  since?" 

Fay  shook  her  head.  "No.  No — he  offered  to 
loan  me  some,  but,  thank  God,  I  refused." 

"Well,  that's  good,  anyhow,"  Stuart  said  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  "Now,  let's  be  cheerful  again.  Do 
you  like  this  sort  of  thing — I  mean  these  dances?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  suppose  I  do.  They  keep  your  mind 
off  other  troubles,  and,  besides,  it  all  seems  to  be  part 
of  the  game,  and  apparently  it's  the  only  game  for  a 
girl  in  my  position.  You've  seen  enough  of  the 
theater  to  know  that  a  girl  can't  hold  herself  as 
being  any  better  than  the  rest  and  expect  to  get  on." 


224  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

"But  you  can't  go  on  doing  this  sort  of  thing," 
Stuart  protested,  "that  is,  not  on  your  present  sal- 
ary." 

"I  have  so  far,"  Fay  said,  "that  is,  I  have  with  the 
hundred  you  loaned  me." 

Stuart  shook  his  head  in  violent  protest.  "But 
you  can't  keep  it  up — I  know  you  can't.  What  is 
your  ultimate  ambition,  anyhow?  Do  you  want  to 
get  married,  or  do  you  want  to  be  a  great  actress?" 

"Both,"  Fay  laughed. 

"And  do  you  consider  the  kind  of  life  you  are 
leading  now,"  Stuart  asked,  "to  be  a  proper  step 
to  either?" 

"I  do,  and  I'm  working  on  a  carefully  thought  out 
and  well  defined  scheme.  I'm  making  myself  con- 
spicuous, which  is  apparently  the  first  ambition  of 
every  actress,  and  I'm  keeping  myself  respectable, 
which  is,  of  course,  absolutely  necessary  to  a  suc- 
cessful marriage." 

Stuart  stood  up  and  smiled  pleasantly  down  at 
Fay's  smiling  eyes. 

"Do  you  really  think  you  can  win  out  with  that 
theory?" 

"Of  course  I  can,"  Fay  laughed,  "watch  me." 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  225 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  watch  you  and  I'll  help 
you,  too.  You  have  the  courage  of  your  convictions, 
anyhow,  but,  really,  I  don't  think  our  best  young 
men,  unless  they  happen  to  be  very  young  indeed, 
are  looking  for  wives  in  private  supper-rooms.  Have 
you  fixed  it  up  with  any  one  to  take  you  home  ?" 

Fay  blushed  and  shook  her  head.  "  'Nobody 
asked  me,  sir/  she  said." 

"Good,"  cried  Stuart,  "then  we'll  have  one  more 
dance  and  finish  our  talk  in  the  cab." 

It  was  dawn  when  they  started  up  the  avenue  on 
the  way  to  Mother  Yorke's  flat,  and  Fay,  sleepy  and 
thoroughly  tired  out,  was  grateful  that  Stuart 
showed  no  inclination  to  continue  their  recent  con- 
versation that  had  taken  such  a  purely  personal 
and  even  intimate  turn.  The  taxicab  whirled  them 
over  the  gray  deserted  streets,  and  then  along  the 
broad  bowered  roadways  of  the  park.  The  cool 
morning  air  seemed  wonderfully  fresh  and  clean 
after  that  of  the  hot  smoky  supper-room;  and  both 
of  them,  quite  at  peace  and  content,  preferred  to 
remain  in  complete  silence.  It  had  been  the  first 
really  happy  evening  that  Fay  had  known  for  a  long 
time  and  she  was  as  conscious  of  this  as  she  was  that 
her  pleasure  was  almost  entirely  due  to  her  meeting 


226  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

with  Stuart.  In  his  presence  she  enjoyed  a  feeling 
of  such  perfect  safety  and  protection,  and  then,  too, 
he  seemed  to  understand  her  and  he  was  so  sincere 
and  honest  in  all  that  he  said.  When  they  were 
within  a  few  blocks  of  her  home,  Stuart  picked  up 
Fay's  purse  from  the  cushion  where  she  had  laid  it, 
placed  a  roll  of  bills  in  it,  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"There's  some  ammunition  to  fight  Lusk  with," 
he  said.  "Let  me  know  when  you  need  any  more, 
won't  you?" 

Fay  shook  herself  free  from  her  lethargy  and  sat 
up  straight  on  the  edge  of  the  seat,  once  more  quite 
wide  awake. 

"Why  should  I  take  money  from  you,"  she  asked, 
"and  not  from  Lusk  ?" 

"Don't  make  me  laugh,  Miss  Clayton,"  Stuart 
said.  "I'm  backing  that  theory  of  yours  just  as  I 
would  back  a  theory  about  a  race-horse.  I  don't 
happen  to  think  it's  a  very  fine  theory,  but  I've  got 
as  good  a  chance  putting  my  money  on  it  as  I  have 
on  a  race-horse.  Better,  perhaps,  I  should  think 
from  my  experience." 

The  cab  stopped  before  her  door,  and  Fay  turned 
her  face  toward  him  and  her  big  eyes  looked  fairly 
into  his. 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  227 

"Just  what  is  your  theory  ?"  she  asked. 

"My  theory  in  your  particular  case,"  he  said, 
"would  be  to  give  up  late  suppers,  and  live  in  a  hall 
bedroom  and  save  something  every  week  out  of  your 
salary.  And,  furthermore,  I'll  bet  you'll  do  it  some 
day,  and  you'll  do  it  of  your  own  sweet  will,  and 
because  you  want  to  do  it." 

"Then  why  give  me  the  money?"  she  persisted. 

"Why?  Because  white  gloves,  and  hats  with 
plumes  on  them,  and  pretty  dresses  cost  money,  and 
if  I  didn't  supply  them  or  the  wherewithal  to  get 
them,  in  your  present  frame  of  mind  somebody  else 
might,  and  I'm  the  least  dangerous  giver  I  know. 
Also,  I've  always  understood  if  you  want  to  make  a 
child  stop  eating  candy  the  easiest  way  was  to  feed 
it  candy  until  it  was  good  and  sick.  You're  really 
only  a  child,  and  my  theory  is  that  you're  going  to 
be  good  and  sick  pretty  soon." 

"All  right,"  said  Fay.  "I'll  take  the  money  be- 
cause you're  you,  but  tell  me  one  thing  more.  If  I 
wear  white  gloves,  and  pretty  dresses  and  expensive 
hats  I'll  wear  them  for  people  to  see,  and  the  people 
will  know  well  enough  that  I'm  not  buying  them  out 
of  my  salary.  What's  the  difference  between  the 
name  and  the  game?" 


228  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

Stuart  got  up  and  let  himself  out  of  the  cab. 

"The  difference,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  to 
her,  "is  much  the  most  important  thing  in  life — your 
conscience." 

With  a  sudden  impulse  Fay  took  his  hand  in  both 
of  hers.  "Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I'll  remember 
that  and  all  the  other  things  you've  said.  Good 
night  to  you.  You'll  call  me  up  sometimes,  won't 
you?" 

"Of  course  I  will,"  Stuart  laughed;  "why,  the 
fight  has  only  just  begun.  Good  night." 

It  was  past  noon  when  Fay  awoke  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  after  dressing  she  went  out  into  the  little 
sitting-room.  With  the  exception  of  Mr.  Hooker, 
who  was  dozing  in  his  rocking-chair  before  the  win- 
dow, the  place  was  quite  deserted.  As  Fay  came  in 
the  old  man  roused  himself  and  blinked  and  smiled 
at  her  with  an  unusual  cheerfulness. 

"Good  morning,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "and  how  are 
you  to-day  ?" 

Fay  glanced  at  herself  in  the  mirror  that  hung 
over  the  mantel  and  wearily  shook  her  head. 

"Not  very  well,"  she  sighed.  "Our  Fay  isn't  look- 
ing her  best  these  days." 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  229 

"Too  many  late  hours,  my  child,"  the  old  man 
chuckled ;  "it's  the  beauty  sleep  you  miss,  and  that's 
the  only  kind  that'll  bring  the  roses  back  to  your 
cheeks." 

"I  don't  think  it's  exactly  that,"  Fay  said.  "I 
guess  it's  just  worry  over  trying  to  keep  step  with  a 
whole  regiment  of  people  who  have  been  marching 
together  for  years.  I'm  an  awfully  raw  recruit,  and 
I  don't  learn  easily — that's  all." 

She  sat  down  in  a  chair  facing  the  old  man  and 
went  on  talking. 

"Mr.  Hooker,  just  now  when  I  was  putting  on  my 
shoes,  I  was  wondering  what  a  girl  ought  to  do 
when  men  throw  money  at  her,  literally  throw  it  at 
her.  You  understand  what  I'm  trying  to  get  at — 
you  know,  when  she  hasn't  worked  for  it." 

"Meaning  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  meaning  me." 

"I'd  throw  it  back,"  said  Mr.  Hooker.  "But  don't 
tell  Mother  Yorke  or  Angie  I  said  so." 

Fay  met  his  smiling  glance  and  nodded. 

"I  guess  you're  right.  It's  so  hard  sometimes  for 
me  to  keep  my  point  of  view.  The  old  standards 
I  had  at  Pleasantville  seem  to  have  gone  to  smash 


23o  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

long  ago  and  to  have  come  tumbling  about  my 
poor  head." 

"That's  a  pity,"  said  Mr.  Hooker.  "I  know  how 
hard  it  is  to  keep  up  to  the  high  mark  you  set  for 
yourself  and  yet — " 

"And  yet — "  Fay  repeated. 

The  old  man  smiled  and  ran  his  fingers  slowly 
through  his  long  white  beard.  Then  he  took  out  his 
watch,  and  opening  it,  showed  Fay  a  photograph 
pasted  on  the  lid  opposite  the  crystal.  It  was  a  cheap 
photograph,  stained  and  faded,  of  a  very  old  woman 
with  snow-white  hair,  a  wrinkled  face  and  a  mouth 
and  eyes  that  evidently  knew  no  such  thing  as  com- 
promise. 

"That,"  he  said,  "was  my  mother.  It's  a  copy 
taken  from  an  old  photograph.  I'm  sorry  it's  so 
bad,  for  I  don't  think  it  does  her  justice,  quite. 
Mother  was  a  hard  woman,  but  very  fair  and  very 
just,  but  I  didn't  know  that  until  afterward.  You 
see,  I  went  away  when  I  was  pretty  young  and — 
and  she  died  before  I  ever  began  to  find  out  some 
of  the  things  that  she  had  done  for  me.  Died  long 
before  I  ever  had  a  chance  to  find  out,  and  to  show 
her  how  grateful  I  was  for  all  those  years  of  pain 
and  suffering  that  I  had  caused  her  and  for  all  the 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  231 

care  she  had  given  me  as  a  kid.  But  later  when  I 
grew  up,  and  everywhere  I  looked  I  saw  women 
suffering,  and  depriving  themselves,  and  starving  for 
their  children,  then  I  understood  what  my  mother 
had  done." 

He  glanced  down  at  the  photograph  and  then  at 
Fay,  who  was  looking  at  the  picture,  too. 

"I  know  you'll  think  it's  a  hard  face,  my  dear," 
he  went  on  again,  "but  she  wasn't  hard.  She  was 
very  gentle  with  me,  and,  even  now,  I  can  remember 
when  I  used  to  run  to  her;  and  how  she'd  put  out 
her  arms;  and  her  smile  was  just  like  an  angel's — 
yes,  my  dear,  just  like  an  angel's. 

"There  are  weeks,  months  I  should  say,  perhaps 
there  have  been  years,  when  I  have  opened  that 
watch  again  and  again  and  looked  only  on  the  face 
which  would  tell  me  the  hour  of  the  day.  But  there 
have  been  other  times  when  I  looked  only  for  the 
face  of  my  mother — times  when,  as  you  say,  things 
go  tumbling  about  your  head,  and  you're  crying  out 
for  help,  and  the  kind  of  help  that  even  your  friends 
can't  give  you." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  Fay  said,  "but  you 
see,  Mr.  Hooker,  I  haven't  a  picture  of  my  mother — 
I  haven't  even  the  faintest  memory  of  her." 


232  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

The  old  man  put  out  his  hand  and  patted  her 
gently  on  the  knee. 

"I  know,  my  dear,"  he  went  on,  "I  know,  but,  be- 
lieve me,  there  are  the  memories  of  other  things. 
Have  you  forgotten  your  home — the  place  you  lived 
when  you  knew  only  the  innocent  thoughts  of  a 
child?" 

"I  have  no  home,"  Fay  said.  "I  have  no  home 
now — that  is  gone  absolutely." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  "it's  not  gone  any  more  than  the 
hills  you  knew  as  a  child  are  gone.  It  is  still  there, 
just  as  the  trees  you  used  to  climb  are  there,  and 
the  fields  and  the  meadows  you  played  in  are  there. 
And  if  I  were  you,  I  would  go  back  there  sometime 
— sometime  before  it  is  too  late — and  I  would  wan- 
der over  the  fields  and  among  the  trees  that  you 
knew  as  old  friends.  And  if  you  are  no  longer  wel- 
come at  your  home,  you  can  still  see  it,  even  if  it  is 
from  a  great  distance.  It's  wonderful,  my  dear 
young  lady,  how  those  simple  things  of  the  days 
when  our  minds  were  simple  will  refresh  us,  and 
make  us  better  and  give  us  the  strength  to  go  on  with 
the  fight.  Because  when  we  reach  a  certain  age,  we 
must  all  fight — the  peace  and  the  content  are  gone, 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  233 

and  it  is  only  to  the  very  old,  who  have  given  up 
the  struggle,  and  who  are  waiting  for  the  end,  that 
those  days  of  peace  and  content  can  ever  return.  So 
save  the  memory  of  them,  my  dear,  save  it  as  you 
would  your  good  name,  and  the  name  of  your 
mother  you  never  knew." 

Fay  got  up  and  in  silence  started  to  leave  the 
room. 

"And  the  money,"  he  asked,  "the  money  that  is 
thrown  at  you  by  men — you  will  send  it  back?" 

Fay  turned  and  smiled  and  with  the  tips  of  her 
ringers  blew  a  kiss  to  the  old  man. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "That  is  what  I  am  going  to 
do  now — send  it  back." 

This  was  the  letter  that  Fay,  in  the  seclusion  of 
her  bedroom,  wrote  to  Stuart : 

"My  dear  James  Stuart : 

"I  am  returning  you  the  roll  of  bills  you  so  kindly 
and  tactfully  pressed  upon  me  last  night.  As  I  have 
not  counted  them  I  do  not  know  the  amount  any 
more  than  you  do,  but  I  am  sure  it  was  good  for 
many  pairs  of  white  gloves  and  big  joyous  hats  and 
even  pretty  dresses.  I  wish  that  I  could  take  the 
credit  to  myself  for  sending  it  back,  but  I  can't. 
It  is  all  due  to  my  fellow-boarder,  Mr.  Hooker,  an 
ex-medicine-showman,  a  philosopher  of  the  ham- 
and-eggs  school,  with  a  body  destroyed  by  excesses, 


234  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

and  yet  who  regards  virtue  as  a  beautiful  concrete 
thing — more  beautiful  and  more  concrete  than  the 
most  wonderfully  cut  jewel  in  the  world.  Decrepit, 
dependent,  his  fading  eyes  set  on  a  green  land, 
where  he  hopes  that  even  his  sins  will  be  forgotten 
and  forgiven,  he  has  asked  me  in  his  own  way  to 
remember  the  days  when  I  played  dolls  on  the 
lowest  hanging  bough  in  our  orchard,  and  when  my 
mind  was  as  pure  and  my  soul  as  white  as  the  apple 
blossoms. 

"You  said  last  night  that  the  difference  between 
the  name  and  the  game  was  a  clear  conscience.  Is 
the  girl's  conscience  clear  who  can  declare  aloud : 
I  am  virtuous — virtuous  according  to  the  laws  and 
traditions  made  by  the  courts  and  society?  How 
about  her  heart  if  it  be  crossed  and  seared  and 
scarred  by  a  knowledge  of  crime  and  vice? — un- 
sought if  you  will,  but  there  it  is.  Do  you  believe 
that  we  can  awake  the  next  morning,  and  with  our 
limbs  still  trembling  from  fear,  thank  the  Lord  that 
we  were  strong  enough  to  have  withstood  tempta- 
tion, and  do  you  believe  that  we  are  still  pure,  and 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  still  acceptable  in  God's 
sight  ?  But,  believe  me,  the  scar  is  there. 

"Since  I  have  come  to  New  York,  my  broker 
friends  have  been  forever  telling  me  that  the  market 
is  bad,  that  money  is  tight,  and  yet  these  same  men 
have  done  nothing  but  offer  me  money,  money,  and 
again  money  and  everything  that  money  will  buy. 
They  mortgage  their  homes,  they  sell  their  yachts 
and  cars,  they  deprive  their  wives  of  the  very  neces- 
sities of  life, and  yet  for  the  new  and  pretty  face  they 
can  still  somewhere  find  money.  Of  course,  my  dear 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  235 

Mr.  Stuart,  I  know  that  you  are  different.  They 
tell  me  that  you  are  an  eccentric  philanthropist,  giv- 
ing much  and  expecting  nothing,  -but  even  your 
money  must  leave  its  scar,  pull  us  down  a  little 
nearer  to  the  point  where  we  don't  care. 

"I  know  that  you  said  all  this  to  me  last  night 
— that  is,  you  tried  to  warn  me  in  your  own  way, 
and  to  wager  that  I  would  in  time  come  to  your 
own  way  of  thinking.  Well,  you  win.  I'm  going 
to  try  to  dedicate  myself  to  my  art,  and  to  the 
bacon  and  the  bad  coffee  of  the  Yorke  family.  If 
you  hear  of  me  again  in  the  gay  world  it  will  be 
as  'One-Dress  Fay.'  I  don't  know  that  I  can  give 
it  up  altogether.  I  rather  imagine  I'm  too  weak 
for  that.  It's  really  going  to  be  very  hard  at  times 
— especially  after  a  long  night  at  the  theater,  and 
when  I'm  tired  and  hungry.  But,  at  least,  I  can 
promise  you  that  hereafter  I  am  going  to  take  your 
advice  and  live  on  my  salary,  and  anything  you  hear 
to  the  contrary  I  want  you  to  know  is  not  true. 

"Also,  when  you  get  this,  please  do  not  write  me 
a  letter  of  condolence  or  send  me  a  bunch  of  orchids, 
and  for  a  week,  anyhow,  please  do  not  try  to  see  me. 
Just  let  me  alone,  for  that  long,  to  fight  it  out  by 
myself,  or  rather  with  the  help  of  our  little  friend, 
Doris,  and  Mr.  Hooker,  the  medicine  man.  So, 
here's  luck  to  you,  Mr.  James  Alexander  Stuart, 
and  lots  of  it — and  may  you  pardon  the  ravings  of, 
"Yours  emotionally, 

"FAY  CLAYTON." 

Without  reading  the  letter  over,  Fay  put  it  in  an 
envelope,  sealed  it,  and  then  left  her  room  to  look 


236  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

in  the  telephone  book  for  Stuart's  address.  In  the 
hallway  she  met  Doris.  The  girl  was  trembling 
with  excitement,  her  usually  smiling  face  had  gone 
quite  white,  and  her  thin  colorless  lips  were  drawn 
into  a  straight  hard  line. 

"What  is  it?"  Fay  asked.  "Is  there  anything  the 
matter,  Doris,  tell  me?" 

Doris  shook  her  head,  and  gently  but  firmly 
pushed  Fay  to  one  side. 

"No,  it's  nothing  much.  I've  got  to  see  mother 
and  Angie.  I've  got  something  to  say  to  them,  now. 
They've  gone  a  little  too  far  this  time."  Then  just 
as  she  reached  the  door  she  threw  over  her  shoul- 
der: "You'd  better  come  along,  Fay.  It  may  inter- 
est you,  too." 

They  went  into  the  sitting-room,  where  they 
found  Mr.  Hooker  in  his  usual  place  before  the  win- 
dow. Angie  was  seated  on  a  sofa  in  the  corner 
plucking  proudly  at  the  broad  satin  ribbons  of  a 
large  black  velvet  hat,  and  Mrs.  Yorke  was  before 
the  mirror  trying  on  an  even  more  ostentatious  af- 
fair— a  kind  of  turban  of  red  silk  and  white  para- 
dise feathers.  At  the  entrance  of  the  two  girls  Mrs. 
Yorke  turned  quickly  and  glanced  at  her  daughter. 

"Well,  Doris,"  she  said,  with  a  somewhat  labored 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  237 

attempt  at  gaiety,  "what  do  you  think  of  mother's 
new  winter  hat,  and  Angle's,  too?  Heaven  knows 
it's  time  we  had  them." 

For  several  tense  moments  Doris  stood  silent  in 
the  center  of  the  room,  her  teeth  clenched,  her 
hands  stuck  deep  in  her  coat  pockets.  She  glanced 
first  at  her  mother  and  then  at  Angie,  and  then  the 
tempest  of  her  wrath  suddenly  broke. 

"Where  did  you  get  them?"  she  demanded. 

"Where  did  we  get  them?"  Mrs.  Yorke  echoed. 
"Why,  we  got  them  from  a  little  money  your  fa- 
ther's lawyer  sent  me,  and  it  was  high  time  he  was 
sending  us  something,  high  time!" 

Doris  looked  the  woman  evenly  in  the  eyes. 
"Mother,"  she  said,  "that's  not  true." 

Mrs.  Yorke's  round  face  turned  a  brilliant  red 
and  her  whole  figure  seemed  to  swell  to  abnormal 
proportions,  while  Angie,  clasping  her  hat  to  her 
breast,  cowered  in  the  corner  as  if  some  one  was 
about  to  strike  her. 

"What  did  you  say,"  Mrs.  Yorke  fairly  shrieked, 
"what  did  you  say,  you  little  hussy !" 

"Don't  get  excited,  mother,"  Doris  said,  trying 
hard  to  subdue  her  own  rage,  "or  you're  liable  to 
die  of  apoplexy.  You  got  those  hats,  or  the  money 


238  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

for  them,  from  Tommy  Garrison,  when  he  came  up 
to  see  me  yesterday  afternoon  and  I  was  out.  I 
know  it's  so  because  I  just  heard  it  from  a  friend 
of  Tommy's  down-town." 

"Well,"  shouted  Mrs.  Yorke,  "can't  Tommy  Gar- 
rison buy  two  poor  women  a  couple  of  hats  ?  His 
father's  rich  enough,  isn't  he  ?  He's  worth — " 

"I  don't  know  about  his  father,"  Doris  interrupt- 
ed, "but  I  know  all  about  Tommy.  He's  a  nice  kid, 
but  he  hasn't  got  a  cent  of  his  own.  I  would  no 
more  ask  him  for  a  hat  than  I  would  a  blind  beggar 
with  a  tin  sign  on  his  chest." 

Mrs.  Yorke  leaned  her  bulky  frame  against  the 
mantel-shelf,  and  folding  her  arms  across  her  am- 
ple breast,  sneered  at  her  daughter,  who  was  stand- 
ing white  and  rigid  in  the  center  of  the  room. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  wouldn't  ask  no  million- 
aire's son  for  nothing.  You'd  let  your  mother 
starve,  and  you'd  let  her  go  about  in  rags  before 
you'd  lift  your  hand  to  help  her.  What  good  has 
all  the  bringing  up  I  gave  you  and  all  your  pretty 
ways  and  your  pretty  face  done  for  me,  and  Pop, 
and  Angie,  here?  No  good,  I  say,  and  now  you 
even  begrudge  us  a  couple  of  hats." 

With  blanched  face  and  her  teeth  set,  Doris  threw 


"Mother,"  she  said,  "that's  not  true. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  239 

up  her  hand,  and  there  was  something  in  the  girl's 
manner  that  subdued  the  mother  into  abject  silence. 

"Mother,"  Doris  began,  "for  the  last  five  years 
I've  worked  for  you,  and  for  Angie,  and  for  Pop, 
and  you  have  all  lived  pretty  much  on  what  I've 
earned.  I  know  I  haven't  made  much,  but  what  I 
made  you  got.  And,  besides  that,  I've  gone  to  men 
for  money  to  pay  the  rent  and  the  bills,  and  just 
because  these  boys  were  kind  and  easy,  and  because 
they  were  sorry  for  me,  they  gave  up." 

Mrs.  Yorke  started  to  speak,  but  once  more  Doris 
threw  up  her  hand  and  the  old  woman  was  silent. 

"And  during  all  that  time,"  she  went  on,  "ever 
since  I  was  fourteen  years  old,  there  has  never  been 
a  moment  that  you  wouldn't  have  sold  me  to  the 
highest  bidder.  You've  never  had  the  nerve  to  say 
it  in  so  many  words,  but  I  know,  mother,  I  know. 
They  talk  about  the  men  in  this  town  and  the  harm 
they  do  to  girls  on  the  stage,  and,  God  knows,  the 
men  are  bad  enough,  but  how  about  the  mothers 
who  have  daughters  in  the  show  business,  and  who 
drive  their  girls  out,  not  for  what  there  is  in  it  for 
the  girls,  but  for  what  they  can  get  out  of  it  them- 
selves? It  isn't  the  girls,  and  it  isn't  the  men.  Be- 
lieve me,  it's  the  mothers,  like  you,  who  are  crazy 


240  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

for  hats  and  new  dresses,  that  send  most  of  the  girls 
to  the  devil  in  this  town." 

Her  face  gone  livid  with  rage,  Mother  Yorke  bent 
her  heavy  body  low  as  if  about  to  spring  at  Doris. 

"You  lie,  you  little  devil,"  she  cried,  "you  lie,  and 
you  know  you  lie !" 

Doris  looked  at  the  old  woman,  unmoved,  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Don't  get  hysterical, 
mother,"  she  said,  "I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  why  it's 
all  over." 

Mother  Yorke  pulled  herself  up  straight,  and  with 
her  arms  resting  on  her  broad  hips,  leaned  against 
the  mantel. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  all  over?"  she  sneered. 

"I  mean,"  Doris  went  on  in  the  same  even  unim- 
passioned  voice.  "I  mean  that  I'm  going  to  quit 
you.  I'm  going  to  quit  you,  and  I'm  going  to  quit 
Angie.  Hereafter  you  two  can  graft,  and  lie,  and 
fight  for  your  own  living,  and  may  God  have  mercy 
on  you  both." 

Old  man  Hooker  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  shuf- 
fling over  to  where  Doris  stood,  put  out  his  hand  and 
touched  her  gently  on  the  sleeve. 

"Won't  you  take  me  with  you,  Doris?"  he 
begged.  "Please  don't  leave  me  here  with  them." 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  241 

Doris  turned,  and  smiling  at  her  grandfather,  put 
her  arm  under  his. 

"That's  all  right,  Pop,"  she  said.  "Of  course, 
you'll  go  with  me,  and  perhaps  Fay  will  come,  too, 
and(  the  three  of  us  can  start  a  little  home  of  our 
own." 

Fay  glanced  at  Mrs.  Yorke's  flushed  angry  face 
and  at  poor  Angie  Clubb,  crouching  at  the  end  of 
the  sofa  and  whimpering  aloud,  and  then  nodded  to 
Doris. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "of  course,  I'll  go." 

Mother  Yorke  glared  at  her  brazenly.  "Go 
ahead,"  she  taunted,  "and  good  riddance,  I  say!  I 
don't  care  very  much  about  having  a  girl  in  my 
house  who  keeps  the  hours  that  you  have  lately, 
Miss  Clayton.  It  ain't  respectable." 

The  blood  surged  to  Fay's  face,  her  throat  sud- 
denly became  parched,  and  she  could  not  force  the 
words  she  wanted  to  speak  through  her  lips.  Doris 
shook  her  head  at  Fay  to  warn  her  not  to  answer, 
and  then  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  door. 

"I  think,  Fay,  you'd  better  pack  now,"  she  said. 
"We'll  be  getting  out  this  afternoon."  Then  she 
turned  to  her  grandfather.  "Come  along,  Pop," 
and  taking  him  by  the  arm,  and  without  looking 


242  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

again  at  her  mother  or  Angie,  she  led  the  old  man 
from  the  room. 

As  the  door  closed  on  them  Angie  stretched  her- 
self at  full  length  on  the  lounge  and  sobbed  aloud. 
Not  so  with  Mrs.  Yorke,  who,  having  regained  her 
composure  in  a  remarkably  short  space  of  time, 
stood  before  the  mirror  once  more  regarding  her- 
self and  her  new  head-gear.  She  glanced  at  the 
weeping  Angie,  and  then  removing  her  hat,  held  it 
before  her  at  arm's  length  and  apparently  scrutinized 
its  every  detail  with  the  greatest  possible  interest 
and  pleasure. 

"Shut  up,  will  you !"  she  suddenly  threw  at  Angie, 
and  then  once  more  turned  her  attention  to  the  hat. 
"And  all  on  account,"  she  sighed,  "of  doing  a  rah- 
rah  boy  out  of  a  couple  of  measly  bonnets.  It 
makes  me  that  sore.  If  I — " 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost  in  Angle's 
cries.  "We'll  starve,"  she  moaned,  "we'll  starve. 
It's  cruel  for  them  to  leave  us  like  that — it's  in- 
human." 

Mrs.  Yorke  tossed  her  hat  on  the  center  table 
and  regarded  her  niece  with  an  apparently  new 
and  speculative  interest. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  243 

"No,  we  won't  starve,"  she  said  in  her  deep  thun- 
dering tones. 

Seeing  a  possible  ray  of  hope  for  a  continuance 
of  her  lazy  selfish  life,  Angie  sat  up  on  the  edge  of 
the  sofa  and  hurriedly  dabbed  her  wet  eyes  with  a 
much-used  handkerchief. 

"What'll  we  do,"  she  gasped  between  sobs,  "what 
is  it  we'll  do?" 

"It  isn't  so  much  what  we'll  do,"  Mother  Yorke 
went  on  gloomily,  as  if  condemning  a  prisoner  to  a 
life  sentence,  "as  it  is  what  you'll  do.  Now  you  put 
on  that  new  hat  of  yours,  and  try  to  borrow  a  fresh 
pair  of  white  gloves  from  Doris  or  Fay — they  may 
be  generous  to  you  now  that  they're  going  away. 
Then  you  go  down-town  and  proceed  to  stump  up 
the  stairs  of  every  manager  in  the  city,  and  you  keep 
on  stumping  until  you  get  a  job,  and,  Angie  Clubb, 
never  you  dare  come  into  that  door  again  empty- 
handed.  Do  you  hear  me?" 

Mrs.  Yorke  drew  herself  to  her  full  majestic  pro- 
portions and  with  the  manner  of  a  true  tragedy 
queen  pointed  to  the  door. 

"Now,  you  grafter,"  she  fairly  shouted,  her  eyes 
ablaze,  "you  blond  loafer — get  out !" 


244  IN  ANOTHER    MOMENT 

For  two  days,  Fay  and  Doris  and  her  grandfather 
stopped  at  a  hotel  in  the  neighborhood  and  then 
moved  to  a  furnished  flat  on  One  Hundred  and 
Thirtieth  Street,  far  over  on  the  west  side.  The 
new  apartment  was  very  small,  and  ill-lighted,  and 
stuffy,  and  the  wall-paper  and  furniture  were  cheap 
and  vulgar  and  garish,  but  it  was  the  best  they  could 
afford,  as  Mr.  Hooker  could  be  of  no  financial  as- 
sistance, and  Fay  had  insisted  that,  at  least  for  the 
present,  it  would  be  only  right  for  Doris  to  send  half 
of  her  salary  to  her  mother.  The  girls  did  the  cook- 
ing and  the  housework  and  in  all  ways  practised  the 
strictest  economy.  They  had  promised  each  other 
that  they  would  live  on  their  wages,  and  would 
neither  ask  nor  accept  assistance  of  any  kind.  It  was 
a  life  in  which  there  was  or  could  be  little  sunshine, 
but  one  fraught  with  hardship  and  deprivation.  The 
two  girls  took  long  walks  in  the  morning  and  in  the 
evening  went  down-town  together  to  their  respect- 
ive theaters  and  returned  together  as  soon  as  their 
performances  were  over. 

Doris  was  cheerful  and  even  happier  than  she 
had  been  when  she  was  the  main  support  of  Mother 
Yorke's  flat,  but  the  lack  of  variety  in  her  life  and 
the  hopeless  vulgarity  of  her  new  home  wore  sen- 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  245 

ously  on  Fay's  nerves,  and  she  became  constantly 
more  gloomy  and  depressed.  She  no  longer  had  the 
money  to  buy  even  the  few  things  that  would  have 
been  necessary  had  she  continued  to  go  to  the  lunches 
and  supper-parties  at  which  for  a  time  she  had  been 
so  conspicuous  a  figure.  But  as  she  persisted  in  re- 
fusing all  invitations,  the  invitations  became  con- 
stantly less  frequent,  and  in  a  short  time  she  was  no 
longer  asked  out  at  all.  It  was  also  but  natural  that 
in  her  present  unhappy  mood,  the  girls  at  the  theater 
should  show  but  slight  desire  for  her  company  and 
gradually  leave  her  to  her  own  devices. 

For  the  time  being  her  spirit  was  gone,  and  she 
was  morbidly  conscious  of  her  lack  of  suitable 
clothes  and  the  cramped  flat  with  its  stale  musty 
odor  had  become  almost  unbearable.  Lusk  had 
written  her  several  times,  and  was  most  anxious 
to  give  her  various  kinds  of  parties.  She  had  al- 
ways refused  these  invitations  with  short  formal 
notes,  and  had  finally  written  him  curtly  that  she  no 
longer  went  anywhere,  but  was  devoting  herself  en- 
tirely to  her  stage  work,  and  to  the  study  that  was 
necessary  for  her  future  career.  Had  such  been  the 
case  Fay  would  have  been  much  happier  than  she 
was,  but  she  was  only  too  well  aware  of  the  fact 


246  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

that  she  was  not  only  not  learning  anything  that 
could  possibly  be  of  any  value  to  her,  but  that  she 
no  longer  did  her  work  at  the  theater  with  the  spirit 
that  the  management  had  a  right  to  expect.  On  sev- 
eral occasions,  after  she  had  left  the  stage,  Morley 
had  reprimanded  her  sharply  for  her  indifference, 
and  once  he  had  threatened  her  with  dismissal  if 
she  did  not  show  an  immediate  and  marked  improve- 
ment in  her  performance. 

Stuart  had  done  as  Fay  had  asked,  and  for  a 
week,  had  neither  written  her  nor  sent  her  flowers 
nor  in  any  way  recognized  her  existence.  But,  at 
the  end  of  that  time,  he  came  with  a  car  laden  with 
roses.  She  received  him  in  the  little  sitting-room 
and  at  the  sight  of  his  friendly  face,  for  a  moment 
the  old  happy  light  flared  up  in  her  eyes,  but  it  was 
only  for  a  moment.  Her  instinct  had  told  her  from 
that  first  long  evening  which  they  had  spent  together 
that  Stuart  liked  her,  and  she  was  quite  sure  that 
she  could  rely  absolutely  on  his  friendship.  She 
knew,  too,  that  she  liked  him  and  admired  him  more 
than  any  other  man  whom  she  had  met  since  she 
had  first  come  to  New  York.  But  she  was  not  in  a 
condition  of  mind  to  encourage  new  friendships. 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  247 

Her  attitude  was  that  of  the  wounded  animal  who 
wishes  only  to  run  away  and  hide  from  its  kind. 

The  visit  was  a  failure.  Fay  knew  it,  and  Stuart 
knew  it.  He  talked  of  things  farthest  removed  from 
her  present  life,  vital  things,  in  which  he  wanted 
her  to  be  interested,  and  in  which  he  knew  and  she 
knew  that  she  ought  to  be  interested.  But  Fay's 
mind  was  no  longer  capable  of  receiving  new  im- 
pressions. Her  body  was  starved  and  her  mind  was 
dulled  by  too  much  trouble.  And  so,  in  a  short  time, 
he  left  her,  disappointed  and  discouraged,  but  still 
hopeful  that  her  mood  was  but  temporary  and  that 
he  could  yet  lead  her  back  to  a  sane  point  of  view 
and  to  a  normal  healthy  life.  She  tried  to  be  gra- 
cious at  this  first  short  visit,  as  she  did  at  the  others 
that  followed,  but,  even  if  the  desire  was  there,  the 
girl's  spirit  was  crushed  and  she  was  unable  to  rise 
above  the  depression  of  her  mind  or  the  poverty  of 
her  surroundings.  In  every  way  possible  Stuart  tried, 
again  and  again,  to  arouse  her  from  her  apathy, 
but  each  of  these  visits  left  him  painfully  conscious 
of  his  failure.  He  admired  her  enormously  for  the 
stand  that  she  had  taken  and  for  which  he  was 
largely  responsible.  However,  this  in  no  way  sur- 


248  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

prised  him,  because  he  thought  he  understood  some- 
thing of  women,  and  from  the  first  he  had  believed 
Fay  to  be  a  girl  of  wonderful  and  infinite  possibili- 
ties. In  spite  of  the  failure  of  his  early  efforts  to 
arouse  any  interest  in  her  or  to  bring  her  back  to 
even  a  shadow  of  her  former  happy  self,  he  contin- 
ued to  visit  her  whenever  she  would  receive  him. 
But,  in  time,  he  came  to  feel  that  his  efforts  were  not 
only  hopeless  but  that  Fay  would  prefer  to  be  left 
alone  with  her  fellow-lodgers.  Therefore,  the  visits 
became  less  and  less  frequent,  and  he  contented  him- 
self by  sending  her  flowers  and  books  so  that  she 
should  be  constantly  reminded  of  his  admiration  and 
of  his  ever-present  friendship. 

But  for  Fay  the  empty  profitless  days  dragged 
on,  and  with  barely  enough  money  on  which  to 
exist,  bereft  of  the  companionship  of  the  encour- 
agement of  her  friends,  save  Stuart,  Fay  could 
find  no  happiness  in  the  present  or  little  to  hope 
for  in  the  future.  Of  all  the  men  that  she  had 
known  it  was,  of  course,  Fielding  that  she  missed 
the  most.  With  his  friendship  to  cheer  her  on,  and 
his  hand  always  held  out  to  her  as  it  was  in  the  old 
days,  she  believed  that  even  her  present  dull  exist- 
ence would  have  been  possible.  But  her  pride  had 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  249 

been  hurt,  terribly  hurt,  and  she  felt  that  the  dif- 
ference in  the  lives  they  now  led  had  carried  them 
very  far  apart  and  that  he  no  longer  cared  for  her. 
The  only  solace  she  found  in  this  gray  unhappy  life 
was  that  it  was  above  suspicion  and  that  there 
was  nothing  with  which  Fielding  could  reproach  her. 
Several  times  she  had  seen  him  in  the  audience  at 
the  theater,  but,  although  when  she  looked  in  his 
direction  and  found  that  his  eyes  were  always  on 
her,  she  had  never  given  him  any  sign  that  she  was 
conscious  of  his  presence. 

It  was  on  a  cold  raw  afternoon,  late  in  November, 
that  Fay  suddenly  determined  that  she  would  visit 
Fielding  at  his  rooms.  She  had  been  feeling  particu- 
larly miserable  and  lonesome  all  day,  and  it  was 
probably  this  extreme  depression  that  prompted  the 
thought.  She  decided  that  perhaps  she  had  been 
unnecessarily  sensitive,  and  that,  after  all,  he  really 
did  care  for  her,  even  craved  to  have  her  back,  just, 
as  ever  since  their  separation,  she  had  craved  to  have 
him^back  again.  It  was  her  hope  that  he  might  feel 
just  as  she  felt,  and  that  he  would  want  to  hold  both 
of  her  hands  in  his,  and  to  tell  her,  in  his  own  way, 
that  she  was  more  to  him  than  any  one  else  in  the 
whole  world.  Her  mind  made  up,  she  began  at  once 


250  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

to  prepare  for  her  visit  to  him.  She  thought  at  first 
that  she  would  telephone  him  of  her  coming,  and 
then  she  decided  that  it  would  be  better  to  have  her 
little  visit  a  complete  surprise. 

Hurry  as  she  might,  she  could  not  arrive  until 
after  five  o'clock,  when  he  was  almost  sure  to 
be  at  home,  and,  in  her  mind,  she  pictured  just 
what  their  meeting  was  to  be.  He  would  be  stand- 
ing at  the  door  of  his  apartment,  his  left  hand 
as  usual  stuck  deep  in  his  dressing-gown  pocket, 
and  in  his  right  hand  he  would  be  holding  his 
pipe,  and  not  knowing,  of  course,  who  it  was  who 
had  rung  his  bell,  he  would  be  greatly  annoyed  and 
scowling  at  the  unexpected  visitor.  But  at  the 
sight  of  Fay  his  face  would  break  into  a  broad 
smile,  and  he  would  call  out  his  welcome  to  her,  and 
holding  out  both  his  arms,  would  hurry  along  the 
passage  so  as  to  meet  her  at  least  half-way.  And 
then  she  would  run  to  him,  and  when  he  had  drawn 
her  into  the  room,  he  would  kiss  her  on  the  forehead, 
as  he  always  did,  and,  perhaps,  he  would  put  his  big 
strong  arms  about  her  and  tell  her  how  very  much 
he  had  missed  her,  how  glad  he  was  to  have  her  back 
again,  and  that  there  never  would,  or  never  could  be 
another  separation  like  this  one. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  251 

Fortunately  the  day  was  cold,  and  Fay  assured 
herself  there  would  be  a  blazing  wood  fire  on  the 
hearth,  and  she  had  always  wanted  so  much  to  see 
a  fire  there.  Their  first  greetings  over,  he  would 
pull  up  his  favorite  armchair,  and  then  he  would 
sit  on  the  floor  at  her  feet  and  smoke  his  pipe,  just 
as  he  used  to  do  in  the  old  days.  They  would  both 
look  at  the  crackling  logs,  and  he  would  tell  her  how 
lonely  he  had  been  without  her,  and  how  never  again 
must  there  be  any  trouble  between  them.  Afterward, 
when  they  were  safely  back  again  on  the  old  inti- 
mate footing,  and  the  last  trace  of  their  quarrel 
had  been  swept  away,  she  would  make  the  tea,  and 
Fielding  would  get  out  the  tin  boxes  of  crackers  he 
always  kept  in  the  cupboard.  She  would  eat  a  great 
many  of  them  because,  instead  of  coming  back  to  the 
flat  for  dinner,  she  would  be  sure  to  decide  to  remain 
at  his  rooms  until  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  to  the 
theater.  These,  and  many  similar  thoughts,  passed 
again  and  again  through  Fay's  mind  as  with  great 
care  she  prepared  for  her  visit. 

She  put  on  her  blue  tailored  suit  that,  in  spite 
of  the  hard  service  it  had  seen,  still  looked  fairly 
well,  and  after  a  long  search  she  discovered  some 
fairly  fresh  white  gloves  and  a  pair  of  black 


252  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

silk  stockings,  which,  although  they  had  been 
darned  many  times,  were  quite  good  enough  for 
one  more  wearing.  When  Fay  was  nearly  ready 
she  glanced  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  and  at  the 
sight  of  the  pale  face  and  the  shadows  under  her 
eyes,  gave  a  little  startled  gasp  of  disappoint- 
ment. But,  to  offset  this,  she  found  some  con- 
solation, in  the  knowledge  that  the  eyes  were  as 
bright  as  they  had  ever  been  and  shone  with  a  light 
to  which  they  had  been  strangers  for  many  days. 
She  took  courage,  too,  from  the  masses  of  wonder- 
ful red  hair  and  the  scarlet  cupid-bow  lips,  the 
beauty  of  which  no  troubles  or  deprivations  could 
dim.  On  her  way  out  she  met  Doris  in  the  hallway, 
and  very  much  to  the  younger  girl's  surprise,  threw 
her  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her  warmly  on  the 
thin  pale  lips. 

"Kid,"  she  cried,  "I'm  going  back  to  Porter. 
Wish  me  luck,  won't  you?" 

Doris  held  her  off  at  arm's  length  and  looked  at 
the  white  gloves,  and  then  at  the  eyes,  fairly  ablaze 
with  the  old  light. 

"You  bet  I  wish  you  luck,  Fay,  dear,"  she  cried, 
"and  such  a  lot  of  it!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  ANSWER  to  Fay's  ring  the  lock  of  Field- 
ing's front  door  clicked,  and  with  a  little  gasp 
of  pleasure  that  she  had  really  found  him  at  home, 
she  hurried  up  the  long  flights  of  stairs.  Instead  of 
catching  the  first  sight  of  Fielding  standing  at  the 
door  of  his  apartment,  as  she  had  expected,  she 
found  him  waiting  for  her  on  the  landing.  Con- 
trary to  her  expectations,  also,  he  neither  held  out 
his  arms  to  her,  nor  gave  the  sudden  cry  of  surprise 
and  pleasure  that  she  had  anticipated.  In  reality 
Fielding  appeared  greatly  confused,  and  his  manner 
was  very  formal,  almost  ungracious. 

"Why,  Fay,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  "this 
is  quite  a  surprise.  I  have  some  friends  to  tea — 
come  in,  won't  you  ?" 

For  a  moment  Fay  stood  still,  hesitating.  "I 
don't  know  what  to  do,"  she  stammered.  "I  think 
I'd  better  not  come  in  to-day." 

It  was  quite  evident  that  Fielding  was  annoyed, 
and  he  made  but  a  sorry  effort  to  conceal  it.  He 

253 


254  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

bit  his  lip,  looked  back  at  the  open  door,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It's  too  late  to  go  back,  now,  Fay,"  he  said  in  a 
whisper.  "They've  heard  you.  You'd  better  come 
along." 

She  followed  him  into  the  sitting-room  where 
she  found  Miss  Wilmerding  at  the  tea-table  and  an 
elderly  white-haired  lady  sitting  before  the  hearth. 
The  blazing  wood  fire  at  least  was  as  Fay  had  ex- 
pected to  see  it.  As  she  entered,  the  two  women 
rose,  and  Miss  Wilmerding,  recognizing  her  at  once, 
held  out  her  hand. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again,  Miss  Clayton,"  she 
said,  and  then  turning  to  the  woman  by  the  fire- 
place; "this  is  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Henley." 

The  elder  woman  bowed  and  sat  down  again  in 
the  big  armchair — the  chair  in  which,  earlier  in  the 
afternoon,  Fay  had  pictured  herself,  at  luxurious 
ease,  with  Porter  sitting  at  her  feet,  smoking  the  pipe 
of  peace.  The  unexpectedness  of  it  all,  the  sudden 
death-blow  to  the  happy  hour  she  had  planned,  and 
more  particularly,  the  coldness  of  Fielding's  recep- 
tion, had  left  Fay  confused  and  uncertain  of  herself. 
Her  habitual  poise  and  the  ease  and  grace  of  the 
girl's  manner  had  vanished,  and  she  found  herself 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  255 

standing  irresolute  and  overcome  with  a  sudden 
fright  and  a  great  longing  to  run  away.  She  heard 
Miss  Wilmerding  say  something  about  tea,  found 
courage  to  refuse  in  a  few  formal  words  of  thanks, 
and  dropped  into  a  stiff  high-backed  chair  that 
Fielding  had  placed  for  her  between  the  two  women. 

"I  think  I  saw  you  once  at  Pleasantville,"  Mrs. 
Henley  said  to  her.  "You  were  playing  quite  a 
wonderful  game  of  tennis.  And  then  I  saw  you  the 
other  night,  when  I  went  to  the  theater  with  Blanche 
here  and  Mr.  Fielding.  I  think  the  play  is  charm- 
ing, don't  you  ? — so  clean,  and  free  from  suggestion 
— unlike  so  many  of  the  plays  of  to-day — and  amus- 
ing, too.  The  music  I  thought  particularly  nice." 

"And,  really,  Miss  Clayton,"  Miss  Wilmerding 
added  with  genuine  enthusiasm,  "I  never  saw  any 
one  look  so  lovely  in  my  life  as  you  do  in  the  second 
act,  in  that  green  spangly  dress  and  the  big  black 
hat.  I  was  just  crazy  about  you.  You  know,  I've 
seen  the  show  several  times." 

Fay  smiled  and  nodded  to  the  girl.  "I'm  glad 
you  think  I  looked  so  well,"  she  said.  "It's  really 
quite  a  wonderful  dress — that  green  one." 

Her  courage  had  suddenly  returned  to  her,  but 
with  it  a  violent  dislike  for  the  two  women.  To  her 


256  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

confused  distorted  mind  their  simple  and  sincere 
expressions  of  pleasure  about  the  performance  and 
her  personal  appearance  appealed  to  her  only  as  a 
species  of  lying  pleasantries,  and  spoken  solely  to 
make  her  feel  at  ease.  The  hot  blood  tingled 
through  her  body,  and  she  resented  their  well-meant 
words  as  keenly  as  she  resented  their  presence. 
This  room  had  once  been  hers — at  least  she  had 
been  its  brightest  ornament — and  she  had  hoped  to 
hold  the  same  position  in  it  again.  But  now  these 
interlopers  had  come,  with  their  gorgeous  furs  and 
their  fine  clothes  and  their  gracious  manners,  and 
had  supplanted  her. 

"Do  you  like  your  life  on  the, stage?"  Mrs.  Hen- 
ley asked. 

Fay  looked  at  the  elder  woman,  pursed  her  lips 
and  wrinkled  her  brow  as  if  in  some  doubt  as  to 
her  answer.  In  reality  her  thoughts  flew  back  to  the 
crowded  dressing-room  at  the  theater,  filled  with 
cigarette  smoke,  to  the  loud  vulgar  talk  of  the  girls, 
and  then  to  the  stuffy  up-town  flat  where  she  lived, 
or  rather  starved,  with  Doris  and  the  old  ex-medi- 
cine man. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  speaking  with  much  de- 
liberation. "I  think  I  like  it  very  much.  Of  course, 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  257 

advancement  is  a  little  slow  at  first,  but  it's  not  a 
bad  life  while  you're  waiting  for  fame  and  wealth. 
I  suppose  there  is  a  sort  of  glamour  about  women 
of  the  stage — that  is,  there  seems  to  be  in  the  case 
of  a  certain  kind  of  men  in  town — I  mean  the  men 
of  your  class."  Fay  hesitated,  smiled  at  Mrs.  Hen- 
ley, and  went  on,  "I  really  don't  know  why,  but  they 
must  get  awfully  bored  at  home,  for  they're  for- 
ever running  after  us,  and  giving  us  suppers  and 
dances  in  private  rooms  and  taking  us  on  long,  cozy 
automobile  rides.  I  don't  know  what  the  inns 
around  New  York  would  do  if  it  weren't  for  us 
show-girls  and  the  rich  married  swells." 

Fay  had  spoken  the  last  few  words  with  her  eyes 
cast  on  the  floor  as  if  to  give  an  appearance  of  mock 
modesty,  but  when  she  glanced  up  again  she  found 
that  Mrs.  Henley  was  gazing  into  the  fire  with  a 
look  of  complete  boredom  on  her  face.  Blanche 
Wilmerding  was  smiling  into  her  tea-cup,  as  if  its 
interior  decoration  was  a  matter  of  much  curiosity 
and  amusement,  but  Fielding's  eyes  she  found  were 
set  on  her  own,  and  she  saw,  also,  that  he  was  blush- 
ing furiously.  Well,  if  he  was  ashamed  of  her,  if  he 
found  her  unworthy  of  these  new  friends,  she  would 
give  him  good  cause.  Surely,  she  argued,  he  had 


258  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

brought  it  on  himself — who  was  he  that  he  should 
not  have  welcomed  her  return  joyfully  rather  than 
as  the  unavoidable  visit  of  some  social  pariah!  Why, 
were  these  women  better  than  she  because  she  had 
chosen  to  work  for  an  honest  living?  She  looked 
into  Fielding's  scarlet,  embarrassed,  good-looking 
face  and  smiled  at  him  knowingly. 

"I'm  very  tired,  Porter,"  she  said.  "Could  you 
let  me  have  a  drop  of  that  very  good  Scotch  you 
gave  me  the  other  night  when  I  was  here?  Just 
plain  Scotch — no  water,  please." 

Fielding  got  up,  and  taking  a  bottle  of  Scotch  and 
a  glass  from  the  cupboard,  poured  out  a  drink  and 
handed  it  to  her  in  silence. 

"And,  Porter,  dear,"  Fay  ran  on,  "could  you  let 
me  have  a  cigarette  ?  I  know  Mrs.  Henley  and  Miss 
Wilmerding  won't  mind,  and  it's  such  a  tremendous 
tonic  to  my  poor  shattered  nerves." 

Fay  lighted  the  cigarette  herself,  and  holding  it  in 
one  hand  and  the  glass  of  Scotch  in  the  other,  she 
carefully  crossed  her  feet  so  that  between  her  low 
patent  leather  shoes  and  the  edge  of  her  skirt  there 
was  an  ample  display  of  black  silk  stocking. 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Henley,"  she  went  on,  "it's  really 
a  very  strenuous  life  I  lead — working  at  night,  and 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  259 

then  amusing  the  swells  until  all  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing. But,  of  course,  you  will  understand  the  latter 
part  of  it — any  woman  can  sympathize  with  another 
who  has  to  keep  these  New  York  business  men 
amused  or  interested.  They're  really  awfully  dull, 
at  least  I  find  them  so,  but  we  shouldn't  blame  the 
poor  souls,  should  we?  I  suppose  they  have  to 
spend  all  of  their  puny  brains  on  business  during  the 
day  to  make  enough  money  to  buy  taxicabs  and 
champagne  for  us  show-girls  at  night." 

She  stopped  just  long  enough  to  glance  at  Mrs. 
Henley,  but  finding  that  the  old  lady  was  looking 
with  the  same  bored  expression  into  the  fire,  Fay 
hurried  on  again. 

"There  was  a  most  wonderful  party  up-stairs  at 
Sherry's  the  other  night.  You  wouldn't  believe, 
Mrs.  Henley,  the  men  who  were  there — some  of  the 
biggest  men  in  New  York,  merchants,  and  lawyers, 
and  brokers,  and  all  having  the  time  of  their  dear 
old  lives,  dancing  and  making  love  to  the  girls. 
There  were  two  bands  and  some  corking  vaudeville 
stunts,  and  then,  later,  a  lot  of  the  regular  boys,  the 
younger  set,  from  a  debutante's  coming-out  party. 
It  certainly  was  good  to  get  some  new  blood  be- 
cause the  ancient  captains  of  industry  were  just 


260  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

about  all  in."  Fay  turned  to  Miss  Wilmerding. 
"Don't  you  ever  wonder,  Miss  Wilmerding,"  she 
said,  smiling  sweetly,  "how  these  young  men  who  go 
to  a  respectable  party  first  and  then  hurry  on  to  a 
chorus  girls'  ball  and  spend  the  night  dancing  and 
drinking,  are  able  to  go  to  their  work  at  all  in  the 


morning  ?' 


Miss  Wilmerding  smiled  at  Fay  and  shook  her 
head. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  she  said,  "I'd  never 
thought  of  it  before — especially  the  chorus  girls' 
ball  part  of  it.  Now  that  you  mention  it,  I  should 
think  it  must  be  a  frightful  effort,  and  some  of  the 
men  really  haven't  got  too  many  brains  to  squander, 
have  they  ?" 

"Not  much  they  haven't,"  Fay  laughed.  "Now 
if  they  could  only  lie  abed,  as  we  do,  until  late  into 
the  afternoon  it  would  be  different.  But  men  must 
work,  I  suppose — we  women  are  such  expensive 
playthings." 

She  glanced  at  the  clock  over  the  mantel,  un- 
crossed her  feet  and  rose  from  her  chair. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  be  going,"  she  said  abruptly. 
"I'm  due  at  a  little  dinner  before  the  performance." 

Miss  Wilmerding  got  up  and  shook  hands  in  a 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  261 

most  friendly  manner  with  her,  but  Mrs.  Henley  sat 
still,  and  her  farewell  was  confined  to  a  formal  bow. 
Fielding  opened  the  door  and  went  with  Fay  as  far 
as  the  landing  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"Good-by,  Porter,"  she  said.  "I'm  sorry  I 
broke  into  your  party.  I  hope  I  didn't  talk  too 
much,  but  your  friends  seemed  so  keen  to  know 
something  about  a  show-girl's  life,  and  I  thought 
they  might  never  have  another  chance  to  hear  the 
inside  story." 

"Why,  that's  all  right,  Fay,"  Fielding  said,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand.  "I'm  glad  you  came.  Good-by." 

For  a  moment  after  he  had  returned  to  the  room 
there  was  an  embarrassing  silence.  It  was  Miss 
Wilmerding  who  spoke  first. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  us,  Porter,"  she  said,  "that 
you  had  asked  other  guests  ?  Such  an  amusing  per- 
son, your  friend,  Miss  Clayton." 

Fielding  hesitated,  much  confused.  "You  see,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,"  he  stammered,  "I  didn't  ask  Miss 
Clayton.  She  just  dropped  in." 

"How  nice  of  her,"  Miss  Wilmerding  laughed. 
"Now  is—" 

"Very  extraordinary  of  her,  I  should  say,"  Mrs. 
Henley  interrupted.  "I  may  be  old-fashioned,  but 


262  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

this  idea  of  dropping  into  a  bachelor's  apartment  for 
tea,  or  even  a  Scotch  and  soda  and  a  cigarette,  seems 
very  modern  to  me.  And  her  remarks  about  those 
dances,  and  the  young  men,  and  the  captains  of  in- 
dustry, were  most  unusual.  Do  people  talk  about 
that  sort  of  thing  nowadays?" 

"It  would  seem  so,"  Fielding  said,  "that  is,  some 
people  do.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Henley,  I'm  very  sorry." 

Miss  Wilmerding  sat  back  in  her  chair  and 
laughed  aloud. 

"Why,  Porter,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  mean  by 
saying  you're  sorry?  The  girl  didn't  like  us — that's 
all.  She  was  bluffing;  she  didn't  touch  the  Scotch, 
and  I  could  see  by  her  face  that  she  hated  the  cigar- 
ette. It  almost  made  her  sick.  I'm  sorry,  too,  but 
I'm  sorry  for  her — not  for  any  of  us.  The  girl's 
sick,,  I  tell  you,  and  overworked  and  run  down  or 
something.  I  used  to  see  her  at  Pleasantville,  and 
she  wasn't  the  same  person  at  all,  always  laughing 
and  full  of  fun,  and  had  the  most  wonderful  spirits, 
and  now  look  at  her.  Have  you  seen  much  of  her, 
Porter,  since  she  came  to  town?"  , 

Fielding  shook  his  head.  "Not  much,"  he  ex- 
plained, "that  is,  not  very  much  lately.  Npt  at  all 
for  the  last  two  months  or  so." 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  263 

Miss  Wilmerding  put  her  palms  together,  slowly 
joined  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments stared  up  at  the  ceiling. 

"Of  course  it's  none  of  my  business,"  she  said, 
"and  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,  but  I  do  know 
that  you  used  to  be  very  good  friends.  It  seems  a 
pity  for  a  girl  alone  in  a  big  city  to  lose  all  of  her 
old  friends,  doesn't  it?  I  wonder  if  she  would  let 
me  call  on  her?  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  all 
right,  Aunty?" 

Mrs.  Henley  raised  her  eyebrows  and  slightly 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  suppose  so.  I  don't 
know  where  Miss  Clayton  lives,  but  it  certainly  can't 
be  any  worse  than  those  awful  East  Side  tenements 
and  the  jails  you  are  always  visiting!" 

Miss  Wilmerding  got  up.  "Come  on,  Aunty," 
she  said,  "we  must  be  going  home."  And  then, 
turning  to  Fielding,  "Don't  forget  you're  coming  to 
a  family  dinner  to-night.  Couldn't  you  see  Miss 
Clayton  to-day,  somehow,  and  tell  her  that  I  want  to 
call  on  her  very  soon  ?" 

Fielding  nodded.  "Why,  yes,  I  could  see  her 
after  the  performance,  to-night,  surely." 

"Do  that,  will  you,  for  me,"  Blanche  said,  smil- 
ing at  him,  "and  try  to  fix  it  for  to-morrow  after- 


264  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

noon.  The  sooner,  the  better,  and  then  she  will  un- 
derstand that  I'm  really  interested." 

"It's  very  good  of  you,"  Fielding  said,  "very 
good  of  you,  and  I  know  that  Fay  will  appreciate 
it." 

"Good  of  me !"  Blanche  laughed.  "I'm  only  too 
glad  to  get  the  chance  to  know  her  better.  I  think 
she's  bully." 

When  Fay  left  Fielding's  apartment  it  was  past 
six  o'clock  and  there  was  not  time  for  her  to  return 
to  her  home  for  dinner.  It  was  already  dark  in  the 
streets,  the  air  was  cold  and  raw,  and  there  was  a 
light  rain  falling.  The  sidewalks  were  crowded 
with  men  and  women  hurrying  home  from  their 
work,  but  heedless  of  everything  and  everybody,  she 
wandered  on  quite  unconscious  of  where  she  was 
going.  She  put  up  her  hand,  and  noticing  the  white 
glove  she  wore,  smiled  grimly  and  then  brushed  the 
rain  from  her  eyes.  The  cold  bleak  air  blowing  in 
her  face  brought  her  to  a  sudden  realization  of  just 
what  she  had  done  during  her  uncontrolled  fit  of 
jealousy  and  anger. 

"It's  all  over  now,"  she  mumbled  to  herself,  "it's 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  265 

all  over  for  you,  Fay.  And  what  for?  Just  for  the 
fun  of  insulting  two  women  who  wanted  to  be  civil 
to  you — and  they  were  friends  of  Porter's,  too.  I 
guess  you  must  be  crazy,  Fay."  For  an  hour  she 
wandered  along  the  wet  pavements  repeating  the 
same  morbid  hopeless  thoughts,  heedless  of  where 
her  footsteps  led  her  and  trying  only  to  keep  to 
those  streets  that  seemed  the  least  crowded.  Her 
mind,  utterly  fagged  out,  her  body  exhausted  and 
numb  from  the  cold,  she  saw  the  lighted  window  of 
a  cheap  restaurant,  and  it  reminded  her  that  she 
must  get  something  to  eat  if  she  expected  to  be  able 
to  go  through  the  evening  performance.  At  the  far 
end  of  the  restaurant  she  found  a  table  where  there 
were  no  men  and  only  one  other  woman.  A 
waiter  with  a  dirty  apron  took  her  order  for  roast- 
beef  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  then,  with  dull  heavy 
eyes,  Fay  sat  gazing  at  the  cheaply  stenciled  walls, 
the  fly-specked  mirrors  and  the  tawdry  chromos 
with  their  broken  and  tarnished  gilt  frames. 

"It's  a  pretty  tough  night,  eh?"  Fay  heard  a 
voice  say,  and  she  looked  at  the  woman  across  the 
table.  She  was  a  middle-aged  woman  with  a  sal- 
low face  that  had  so  much  rouge  on  it  that  Fay 


266  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

found  herself  wondering  why  the  rain  had  not 
washed  it  off  completely  or  made  it  run  in  little  riv- 
ulets down  her  cheeks. 

She  nodded  at  the  woman  and  made  an  attempt 
to  smile,  but  it  was  a  rather  sorry  effort,  as  her 
clothes  were  wet  through,  her  body  was  so  very 
tired  and  her  limbs  were  numb  from  the  cold. 

"Yes,  it's  a  very  bad  night,"  she  said  as  civilly 
as  she  could. 

"Too  wet  for  white  kid  gloves,"  laughed  the 
woman.  "They'll  be  doing  you  no  good  to-night, 
my  dear.  Better  keep  your  finery  for  the  fair 
nights." 

"Thank  you,"  Fay  said,  "I'd  forgotten,"  and  she 
tugged  at  the  wet  gloves  until  she  had  pulled  them 
off.  The  waiter  brought  her  a  plate  of  roast-beef 
and  a  cup  of  coffee  and  Fay  began  her  supper  at 
once,  but  the  woman  across  the  table  seemed  to  be 
in  no  hurry,  and  insisted  on  continuing  the  conver- 
sation. 

"I've  never  seen  you  here  at  Dorin's  before,"  she 
suggested. 

"No,"  Fay  said,  "I  work  farther  up-town." 

"Work?"  the  woman  repeated. 

"Yes.     I'm  in  the  show  at  the  Knickerbocker." 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  267 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,"  said  the  woman, 
"a  regular  actress!  May  God  help  you,  I  say!  I 
was  in  the  show  business  myself  once,  but  never 
again.  I  traveled  night  and  day  with  Murray's 
Oriental  Blondes  for  two  seasons.  That's  a  fine 
profession!  Look  what  it's  brought  me  to — eating 
at  Dprin's  with  a  lot  of  greasy  chauffeurs  and 
drunken  night-hawk  drivers.  But  now  I'm  inde- 
pendent— I  lead  my  own  life,  bad  as  it  may  be,  and 
I'll  give  it  to  you  straight,  it's  no  worse  than  when 
I  was  an  actress  with  Murray's  Oriental  Blondes. 
There's  no  stage-manager  living  can  tell  me  now 
what  I  must  do  and  what  I  mustn't  do." 

With  a  tremor  that  ran  through  her  whole  body 
Fay  looked  at  the  woman's  rouged  cheeks  and  fishy 
meaningless  eyes,  and  then  glanced  at  the  clock  over 
the  cashier's  desk.  It  was  already  half-past  seven — 
the  hour  at  which  she  should  have  reported  at  the 
theater — and  so  she  hurriedly  drank  her  coffee,  and 
asked  the  waiter  for  the  check. 

The  woman  looked  at  her,  chuckled,  and  con- 
tinued slowly  to  stir  the  coffee  in  her  own  huge  cup 
of  heavy  cracked  china. 

"There  you  are,"  she  said,  as  Fay  rose  quickly 
from  the  table,  "rushing  off  with  only  half  your  din- 


268  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

ner  finished,  while  I  sit  here  and  enjoy  my  demi- 
tasse  at  my  elegant  leisure.  Good  night  to  you, 
dearie,"  she  called  to  her  derisively,  "and  good  luck 
to  you." 

It  was  a  quarter  to  eight  when  Fay  reached  the 
stage  door,  and  to  her  great  distress  she  met  Sedley, 
Morley's  assistant,  on  the  stairs  leading  to  her  dress- 
ing-room. Sedley  deliberately  put  his  hand  on  the 
balustrade  and  his  arm  blocked  her  way. 

"Late  again,  eh,  Miss  Clayton  ?"  he  snapped  at  her. 
"If  it  wasn't  that  half  a  dozen  of  the  girls  are  off 
to-night  I  wouldn't  let  you  go  on  at  all.  Some  of 
you  dames  is  altogether  too  good  for  this  business." 

Fay  turned  and  looked  him  evenly  in  the  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Sedley,  I  can't  bribe  you  the 
way  some  of  the  girls  do,"  she  said,  "but  I  can't 
afford  it.  I'm  not  that  kind  of  a  girl.  Do  I  go  on 
or  not?  Have  it  your  own  way — it's  up  to  you." 

The  young  man  whistled  softly  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "Sure,"  he  said,  "I  told  you  to  go  on  to- 
night. But  the  next  time  you're  late  you  won't  go 
on.  You  won't  go  on  that  night  or  any  night  after 
that.  Do  you  get  me?" 

With  a  sneer  he  dropped  his  arm,  and  Fay,  white 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  269 

from  rage  and  fear,  and  without  looking  at  him 
again,  hurried  on  to  the  dressing-room. 

Fay's  performance  that  night  was  but  a  shadow  of 
what  it  had  been  earlier  in  the  season.  With  the  aid 
of  her  make-up  box  it  was  easy  enough  to  conceal 
the  pale  cheeks  and  the  shadows  under  the  eyes,  but 
the  enthusiasm  and  the  animal  spirits  of  youth  were 
conspicuously  absent,  and  the  fact  that  Morley  and 
Sedley  were  constantly  watching  her  from  the  en- 
trances did  not  tend  to  improve  her  performance. 
Over  and  over  again  she  thought:  "If  I  could  only 
escape  from  the  awful  glare  of  those  footlights — 
if  I  could  only  get  away  from  those  rows  and  rows  of 
grinning  faces."  But  she  knew  only  too  well  that  she 
could  not  get  away.  She  needed  every  penny  of  her 
salary ;  she  could  not  even  afford  the  luxury  of  stay- 
ing off  for  a  night  or  two  as  so  many  of  the  girls 
did.  This  would  not  only  mean  the  loss  of  her  pay, 
but,  unpopular  as  she  now  was  with  Morley  and  his 
assistant,  she  thoroughly  realized  that,  in  all  proba- 
bility, it  would  result  in  her  immediate  dismissal. 

And  then  her  thoughts  would  suddenly  fly  back  to 
her  visit  to  Fielding's  rooms  and  to  her  gratuitous 
insults  to  his  friends.  She  would  try  to  remember 


.270  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

all  of  the  miserable  cheap  lies  she  had  told  of  her 
life,  and  the  memory  of  every  word  that  she  had 
spoken  would  cut  like  a  knife.  Suffering  from 
fever,  and  several  times  very  near  to  fainting,  she 
somehow  fought  her  way  through  the  long  perform- 
ance and  changed  to  her  street  clothes.  At  the  stage 
door  there  was  the  usual  crowd  of  loafers  and  young 
men  waiting  for  their  girl  friends,  but  quite  sure 
that  there  was  no  one  waiting  for  her,  with  lowered 
head,  she  hurried  on  her  way.  Just  at  the  edge  of 
the  crowd  she  was  conscious  that  some  one  was 
blocking  her  way,  and  looking  up  she  saw  Fielding. 
After  the  disastrous  events  of  the  afternoon  she  had 
already  decided  that  in  all  probability  she  would 
never  see  him  again,  and  her  surprise  at  finding  him 
waiting  for  her  was  as  great  as  the  real  thrill  of 
pleasure  she  felt  at  the  warmth  of  his  greeting. 

"Hello,  Fay,"  he  said,  "I  came  around  to  bring 
you  a  message  from  Miss  Wilmerding.  What  do 
you  say  to  going  somewhere  for  a  bite  of  supper?" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes  told  better  than 
any  words  how  sincerely  glad  she  was  to  see  him. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  came,"  she  said,  "but  I'm  not 
going  out  at  all  these  days.  I  meet  Doris  at  the 
Casino  every  night  now  and  we  go  straight  home. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  271 

Perhaps  you'll  walk  around  there  with  me?  Oh, 
Porter,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you !  I  made  such  a  fool 
of  myself  this  afternoon,  but  I  was  nervous  and 
tired  out — I  haven't  been  very  well  lately." 

"I  know  that.  Fay,  dear,  you  look  all  run  down. 
Miss  Wilmerding  understood  perfectly  and  she  sent 
me  around  to  ask  you  if  you  wouldn't  let  her  come 
to  see  you  some  time  to-morrow." 

It  was  but  a  few  blocks  to  the  Casino,  but  they 
walked  very  slowly,  and  before  they  had  reached  the 
stage  door,  where  they  found  Doris  waiting,  Field- 
ing had  arranged  that  Miss  Wilmerding  was  to  call 
on  Fay  the  following  afternoon. 

There  had  been  but  few  callers  admitted  to  Fay's 
new  home.  Therefore  the  visit  of  any  one  so  distin- 
guished as  Miss  Blanche  Wilmerding,  the  daughter 
of  the  millionaire  banker,  David  Wilmerding,  was, 
at  least  in  the  eyes  of  Doris  and  her  grandfather,  a 
matter  of  the  very  greatest  import.  Both  of  them 
protested  at  first  that  they  should  not  appear  at  all 
during  the  visit  but  remain  discreetly  hidden  in  the 
dining-room.  But  Fay  would  not  consent  to  this, 
and  insisted  that  it  was  not  only  her  pleasure,  but 
distinctly  proper  that  they  should  be  in  the  sitting- 


272  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

room  to  receive  her  guest,  and  that  they  could  retire 
afterward  if  they  chose. 

Mr.  Hooker  was  especially  pleased  at  this  ar- 
rangement and  arose  early  the  next  morning  to  pre- 
pare his  toilet.  This  consisted  in  brushing  his  one 
suit  of  clothes,  laying  out  a  fresh  shirt  and  sending 
Doris  to  a  neighboring  barber-shop  for  a  paper 
collar  and  a  necktie,  to  both  of  which  luxuries  he 
had  long  been  a  stranger.  By  eight  o'clock  he  was 
completely  dressed  and  ready  for  Miss  Wilmer- 
ding's  call,  which  was  to  take  place  at  five  in  the 
afternoon.  It  was  at  his  own  suggestion,  however, 
that  during  the  intervening  hours,  he  should  smoke 
his  pipe  in  his  bedroom  so  that  the  air  of  the  sit- 
ting-room should  be  as  free  as  possible  from  the 
fumes  of  the  very  rank  tobacco  to  which  con- 
tinued poverty  had  addicted  him. 

The  two  girls  spent  the  morning  scrubbing  and 
dusting  and  making  the  little  place  as  clean  as  possi- 
ble, but  they  could  no  more  do  away  with  the  garish 
vulgarity  of  the  furniture  of  the  sitting-room  than 
they  could  with  the  four  flights  of  dark  and  narrow 
stairs  that  it  was  necessary  for  their  guest  to  climb 
to  reach  it.  Doris  was  busily  burnishing  a  tea-cup. 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  273 

but  Fay  had  apparently  grown  tired  of  the  prepara- 
tions and  was  staring  idly  out  of  the  window. 

"I  wonder,"  Doris  exclaimed  excitedly,  "if  she'll 
come  in  a  taxi  or  one  of  her  own  cars  with  a  limou- 
sine top?" 

Fay  shook  her  head  and  stifled  a  yawn.  "I  don't 
know,  Doris,  dear,  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't 
care  very  much." 

"Why,  Fay,"  Doris  cried  in  genuine  surprise,  "I 
think  it's  fine  of  her  to  come  to  see  you.  Don't 
you?" 

"Why,  yes,"  Fay  said,  "I  suppose,  in  a  way,  it  is, 
but  at  best  it's  a  kind  of  charity.  What  can  it  lead 
to? — Nothing.  Last  night  I  was  pleased  with  the 
idea,  because,  I  suppose,  I'd  have  been  pleased  at 
anything.  I  was  so  glad  to  see  Porter  I  could  have 
cried — I  did  very  nearly." 

"Wasn't  he  nice  to  you?"  Doris  asked. 

"Yes,  he  was  nice  to  me  last  night,  after  she  had 
told  him  to  be.  He  wasn't  very  glad  to  see  me  at  his 
place.  That  was  a  mistake,  that  visit.  I  never  should 
have  gone  back.  If  I  hadn't  been  such  a  fool  I  would 
have  telephoned  before  I  started.  I  can  see  things 
as  they  really  were,  now — this  morning.  Doris  he 
was  ashamed  of  me — ashamed  of  me  and  ashamed 


274  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

of  my  profession.  That's  why  this  girl  is  coming  to 
call — she's  sorry  for  me." 

"You're  morbid,"  Doris  shot  at  her.  "You've  got 
things  all  twisted,  and  you  won't  get  them  straight 
until  you  get  over  this  fit  of  nerves.  You  want  to 
look  out  for  yourself,  Fay,  or  you'll  break  down 
altogether." 

Fay  shook  her  head.  "That's  all  right,  kid;  I 
won't  break  down.  But  I'm  right  about  this  girl's 
visit.  What  can  we  have  in  common — nothing, 
nothing  at  all.  At  Pleasantville  it  was  different. 
We  both  played  tennis  on  the  same  courts,  and 
danced  at  the  same  dances,  and  knew  the  same 
men." 

"You  both  know  Porter  Fielding  now,"  Doris 
suggested. 

Fay  nodded,  and  then  smiled  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

"That's  true,  too,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  that's  the 
reason  she's  coming  to  call." 

Doris  got  up  and  in  silence  arranged  the  cups  on 
the  little  table  where  Fay  was  to  serve  the  tea.  Then 
she  turned  to  her  friend:  "I  wouldn't  say  that  if  I 
were  you,  Fay.  It  isn't  like  you." 

Fay  walked  over  and  looked  down  at  the  carefully 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  275 

arranged  little  tea-table.  "Thank  you,  Doris,"  she 
said,  "and  thank  you  for  all  the  trouble  you've  taken 
about  this  call.  But  I  don't  want  her  to  call.  Mark 
my  words,  no  good  can  come  of  it.  She's  always 
stood  in  my  way,  and  now  that  I'm  down  and  out, 
she's  coming  here  with  her  furs  and  her  jewels  to 
gloat  over  me.  I  hate  her." 

"I  know  you  do,"  Doris  laughed,  "but  just  the 
same  she'll  be  here  pretty  soon,  so  go  into  your 
bedroom  and  cool  off  your  face.  And  for  the  love 
of  Heaven,  don't  be  a  fool." 

Notwithstanding  the  four  flights  of  stairs,  Miss 
Wilmerding  arrived  in  the  most  excellent  spirits,  and 
her  fragile  flower-like  beauty,  as  well  as  the  cheeri- 
ness  of  her  manner,  made  an  immediate  and  delight- 
fully favorable  impression  on  both  Doris  and  her 
grandfather.  Indeed,  it  was  to  the  latter  .that  the 
visitor  chose  to  address  the  greater  part  of  her  con- 
versation, until,  very  much  against  his  will,  Doris 
led  him  from  the  room.  When  they  were  gone  Miss 
Wilmerding  sat  in  a  large  rocking-chair,  and  Fay 
took  her  place  at  the  improvised  tea-table. 

"What  a  wonderful  old  man!"  Blanche  ex- 
claimed. "He  reminds  me  so  much  of  some  one." 

"Yes,"  Fay  said,  "Mr.  Hooker  fancies  he  rather 


276  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

resembles  the  pictures  of  Noah.  He's  quite  a  phi- 
losopher in  his  way.  I'm  indebted  to  him  for  much 
excellent  advice — although  I  have  not  always  fol- 
lowed it.  I'm  afraid  it's  rather  a  lonely  life  that  he 
leads  here." 

"Lonely,"  Miss  Wilmerding  repeated,  "with  Miss 
Yorke  and  yourself  near?  I  should  think  that  most 
men  would  envy  him."  She  glanced  about  the  little 
sitting-room.  "And  such  a  comfortable  pretty  home, 
too." 

Fay  looked  at  her  visitor  and  smilingly  shook  her 
head.  "Thank  you,"  she  said.  "It's  a  furnished  flat 
— the  green  plush  furniture  with  the  flowered  panels 
was  not  of  our  choosing." 

Fay  was  not  making  it  easy  for  Miss  Wilmerding, 
but  the  latter  had  come  with  the  distinct  purpose  of 
making  the  girl  her  friend,  and  she  would  not  so 
easily  be  denied. 

"I  was  so  glad  to  meet  you  yesterday,"  she  ran  on. 
"Now  that  you  have  settled  in  town  I  thought  how 
pleasant  it  would  be  if  we  could  see  something  of 
each  other." 

"You're  very  good,"  Fay  said.  "Won't  you  have 
some  tea?" 

As  if  to  give  an  air  of  greater  sociability  to  the 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  277 

occasion,  Blanche  began  slowly  to  pull  off  her 
gloves. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "I  should  like  some  tea 
very  much.  And  what  wonderful-looking  biscuits 
those  are !" 

"Yes,  they  are  nice,"  Fay  admitted.  "Doris  made 
them.  We  divide  the  post  of  cook,  but  Doris  is  so 
much  better  than  I  am  that  she  does  all  the  hot  bread 
and  pastry  work." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  while  Fay  poured 
the  tea,  and  then  Blanche  began  again. 

"You've  known  Mr.  Fielding  for  a  long  time, 
haven't  you?  I  remember  you  were  great  friends 
at  Pleasantville." 

"Yes,  we  were  great  friends,"  Fay  said  with  a 
strong  accent  on  the  were.  "You  see  we  grew  up 
together,  almost  as  brother  and  sister.  Then  Porter 
came  to  town  and  went  into  business,  and  in  a  short 
time  I  followed  him.  And  I  went  on  the  stage." 

"Wasn't  it  splendid,"  Miss  Wilmerding  ex- 
claimed, "you're  both  being  able  to  start  in  the  same 
town !" 

Fay  glanced  at  Blanche  and  then  back  to  the  tea- 
cups. "Yes,  in  a  way,  it  was.  But,  of  course,  you 
see  we  are  both  working  now  and  our  interests  are 


278  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

different  and — and  our  friends  are  not  the  same." 

"But  why  shouldn't  they  be  the  same?"  Blanche 
asked. 

"I  don't  know  exactly  why,"  Fay  said,  "but  it 
doesn't  seem  to  work  out,  somehow.  When  I  went 
on  the  stage  I  thought  everything  would  be  just  the 
same,  but  it  isn't.  It's  quite  different.  You  see,  Por- 
ter has  been  very  successful  and  he  has  had  the  time, 
too,  to  make  new  friends." 

"Hasn't  he,  though!"  Miss  Wilmerding  exclaimed 
with  genuine  enthusiasm.  "I  think  it's  quite  won- 
derful, the  place  he  has  made  for  himself,  and  espe- 
cially in  so«  short  a  time.  All  the  men  and  women 
think  he's  fine,  and  he's  asked  about  everywhere 
now.  We're  very  proud  of  him." 

"Proud?"  Fay  asked. 

Miss  Wilmerding  flushed  at  the  suddenness  of  the 
question,  and  then  hurried  on. 

"Yes,  you  see,  dad  and  I  sort  of  took  him  under 
pur  wing  when  he  came  to  New  York,  and  in  a  way, 
we  felt  responsible;  so  when  he  won  out  we  were 
naturally  pleased — just  as  you  must  feel  pleased." 

"Of  course,"  Fay  said,  "I  understand.  I'm  glad 
he's  been  such  a  success.  It's  nice  to  see  one's 
friends  get  on  in  the  world,  even  if— 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  279 

"And  you're  going  to  be  a  great  success,  too, 
aren't  you?"  Blanche  interrupted  her  as  if  she 
foresaw  what  Fay  was  about  to  say.  "I  suppose  we 
shall  soon  see  your  name  in  a  big  electric  sign  on 
Broadway,  won't  we?" 

Fay  looked  up  from  the  tea-cup  she  was  holding 
in  her  hand.  "I  hope  so,"  she  said,  "but  it  seems 
to  be  a  pretty  hard  road  to  success  on  the  stage. 
Must  you  go  ?" 

Miss  Wilmerding  had  risen  and  was  putting  on 
her  gloves. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must,"  she  said.  "I  just  wanted  to 
look  you  up  and  ask  you  to  be  sure  to  come  and  see 
me.  You  will  come  very  soon,  won't  you?" 

Fay  looked  at  the  bright  eager  eyes  of  the  girl, 
the  pink  and  white  skin,  and  the  broad  clear  brow,  as 
yet  unruffled  by  a  single  real  care  or  trouble. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I'd  be  glad  to  come, 
Miss  Wilmerding,  but  just  now  it's — well,  it's  not 
possible." 

"Why,  Miss  Clayton,"  Blanche  urged,  "please 
don't  say  that.  Surely  you  can  run  in  to  see  me 
some  afternoon,  and  then  we  can  arrange  for  a 
little  party — just  you  and  Porter  and  myself,  or  a 
big  party,  if  you'd  rather." 


280  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

Fay's  eyes  were  becoming  a  little  misty,  but  she 
looked  steadily  into  those  of  her  visitor. 

"I'd  rather  you'd  understand,  Miss  Wilmerding," 
she  said,  "just  why  I  don't  come  to  see  you.  It 
makes  it  more  simple  for  the  future.  I  don't  go 
anywhere,  because  just  now  I  can't.  It's  not  an  easy 
thing  to  say,  but  I've  no  clothes,  and  I  have  no 
money — and  I  don't  belong  any  more.  I'm  out  of  it. 
This  old  man  and  the  girl  you  just  met  are  my  only 
friends,  and  my  acquaintances  are  the  kind  of  people 
you  wouldn't  care  to  meet."  She  turned  her  eyes 
from  Blanche  and  glanced  about  the  room.  "And 
this,"  she  added,  "is  my  home.  Miss  Wilmerding, 
believe  me,  the  girl  who  comes  to  this  town  with 
nothing  but  her  good  looks  had  better  be  dead." 

Blanche  put  out  her  hand.  "Good-by,  Miss  Clay- 
ton," she  said,  "that  is,  if  it  is  to  be  good-by.  But  be- 
fore I  go,  I  want  to  tell  you,  if  you  don't  mind,  how 
I  admire  the  fight  you  are  making  and — and  I  think 
it's  bully  and  that  you  are  just  fine !" 

Fay  led  the  way  in  silence  through  the  narrow 
hallway,  and  after  she  had  opened  the  front  door, 
once  more  shook  hands  with  her  visitor.  ''Good- 
by  again,"  she  said,  "and  thank  you  so  much  for 
coming'." 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  281 

"I'm  sorry  it's  to  be  good-by,"  Miss  Wihnerding 
said,  "perhaps  you'll  change  your  mind  some  day. 
I  hope  so,  anyhow.  Say  good-by  to  Mr.  Hooker  for 
me,  won't  you,  and  to  Miss  Yorke  and  thank  her 
so  much  for  the  biscuits." 

Fay  bowed  her  head  and  when  she  raised  it  again 
Miss  Wilmerding  was  lost  in  the  shadows  of  the 
gloomy  hallway,  and  the  luckless,  profitless  visit  was 
at  an  end. 


CHAPTER  X 

OWING  to  his  long  wait  in  anticipation  of  the 
visit  of  the  distinguished  guest  rather  than  to 
the  visit  itself,  Mr.  Hooker,  completely  exhausted, 
had  fallen  asleep  in  his  bedroom,  and  when  Fay  re- 
turned to  the  sitting-room,  she  found  Doris  enjoy- 
ing the  luxurious  comforts  of  her  grandfather's 
chair. 

"Well,"  asked  Doris,  "did  she  like  my  biscuits? 
I'll  bet  she  never  tasted  anything  like  them  in  her 
Fifth  Avenue  palace — better,  perhaps,  but  nothing 
just  like  them." 

Fay  went  over  to  the  window  in  front  of  which 
Doris  sat,  and  leaning  against  the  frame,  looked  out 
on  the  ill-lighted  gloomy  street 

"She  liked  them  all  right,"  Fay  said.  "Told  me 
to  tell  you  so  and  to  thank  you." 

"Good  for  her,"  Doris  laughed.  "I  rather  like 
your  friend,  and  my !  but  that  was  some  fur  coat  she 
had  on.  If  an  actress  wore  a  coat  like  that  they'd 
suspect  every  Pittsburgh  millionaire  in  the  iron  busi- 

282 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  283 

ness.  Did  your  friend  tell  you  why  she  came  to 
call?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Fay  said,  still  looking  out  of 
the  window,  "just  to  be  sociable  I  guess.  Anyhow,  I 
found  out  what  I  wanted  to  know." 

"And  that  was?" 

"She  loves  Porter." 

Doris  pushed  herself  forward  to  the  edge  of  the 
chair.  Even  if  Fay  had  never  told  her  she  knew 
that  Fielding  was  the  best  part  of  her  friend's  life. 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

Fay  shook  her  head,  and  with  misty  eyes  looked 
up  at  the  darkening  skies.  "I  could  hear  it  in  her 
voice  when  she  spoke  his  name.  It  was  in  her  eyes 
—I  tell  you  it  was  in  her  eyes." 

"But  it  wasn't  in  her  eyes,"  Doris  asked,  "that 
Fielding  loves  her,  was  it  ?" 

"No,"  Fay  said,  "but  do  you  think  Porter  or  any 
other  man  could,  or  would,  refuse  that  pretty  sweet 
thing  and  all  that  she  brings  with  her?  I  don't. 
Especially  Porter,  who  was  born  ambitious,  and  all 
of  his  life  has  been  crazy  for  just  the  things  that 
that  girl  can  give  him." 

Doris  put  out  her  hands  and  gently  pressed  Fay's 
hand  that  hung  limply  by  her  side. 


284  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  she  said,  "so  very  sorry." 

"Thank  you,  kid,"  Fay  whispered.  "I  know.  I 
know  how  you  feel,  but  it's  over.  And  isn't  it  a  pity, 
dear,  when  it's  over  and  when  you  know  it's  over?" 

Half  an  hour  later  when  old  Mr.  Hooker  came 
into  the  room  he  found  them  still  at  the  window 
and  Doris  in  his  favorite  chair,  bending  over  Fay, 
who  was  sitting  at  her  feet  with  her  face  buried  in 
the  younger  girl's  lap. 

Blanche  Wilmerding  returned  to  her  home  thor- 
oughly discouraged  at  her  futile  efforts  to  establish 
any  kind  of  friendly  relations  between  herself  and 
Fay  Clayton.  But  although  she  had  failed  so  sig- 
nally, she  could  not  bring  herself  to  feel  that  the 
fault  was  in  any  way  her  own.  If  she  had  erred  at 
all  it  was  in  going  out  of  her  way  to  do  a  favor 
where  it  was  not  appreciated,  and  where  the  motive 
of  the  kindly  act  was  entirely  misunderstood.  An- 
noyed and  distressed  at  her  lack  of  success  she 
dressed  and  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  to 
wait  for  Fielding,  who  was  coming  to  dinner. 

The  gaieties  of  the  winter  season  were  not  yet 
under  way,  and  of  late  Fielding  usually  dined  alone 
with  Miss  Wilmerding  and  her  father  several  times 
during  the  week.  Occasionally  they  all  went  to  the 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  285 

play  together,  but  more  often  Mr.  Wilmerding  re- 
tired to  his  den,  and  Blanche  and  Fielding  would 
spend  the  evening  chatting  in  the  library  up-stairs 
which  had  all  the  comforts  and  none  of  the  stiffness 
of  the  big  formal  drawing-rooms  on  the  lower  floor. 
In  every  way  the  Wilmerdings  had  made  Fielding 
feel  that  their  home  was  to  be  a  home  to  him,  too, 
and  he  accepted  their  kindness  with  proper  gratitude 
and  a  very  natural  avidity.  On  this  particular  even- 
ing Mr.  Wilmerding  was  going  out  to  a  dinner,  and 
Blanche  was  greatly  pleased  at  the  prospect.  The 
memory  of  her  unhappy  call  on  Fay  still  hung  heavy 
over  her,  and  she  wished  to  tell  Fielding  all  about  it 
and  at  once. 

He  came  in  smiling  and  took  her  proffered  hand 
in  both  of  his  own. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "tell  me  all  about  it." 

"Porter,"  she  said,  "it  was  awful." 

"Awful,"  he  repeated.  "What  was  the  matter? 
Was  the  flat  so  bad  or  was  it  that  terrible  old  man?" 

Blanche  shook  her  head  at  Fielding's  lack  of  un- 
derstanding and  sympathy,  and  an  apparently  de- 
cided inclination  to  take  the  matter  lightly. 

"I  tell  you  it  was  awful.  She  refused  to  come 
to  see  me  or  have  anything  to  do  with  me,  and  I 


286  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

tried  so  hard  to  be  nice  and  friendly  to  her.  Indeed, 
I  did,  Porter.  She  said  it  was  her  poverty,  but 
that's  not  the  real  reason.  There's  something  else." 

"I'm  so  sorry  I  let  you  go  at  all,  Blanche,"  he  said, 
"but  how  was  I  to  know  that  Fay  would  act  like 
that?" 

"Sorry  for  me,"  Blanche  repeated.  "Don't  be 
sorry  for  me — I  tell  you  that  girl  is  a  tragedy.  Oh, 
Porter,  if  you  could  only  have  seen  the  place.  It 
was  so  cheap  and  vulgar  and  the  plush  furniture  and 
the  awful  wall-paper  fairly  screamed  at  you,  and  she 
looked  so  poor  and  so  tired  and — and  hungry.  Yes, 
Porter,  she  did,  I  tell  you,  she  looked  hungry." 

Fielding  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  that,"  he  said.  "You're  a 
little  carried  away  by  your  sympathy.  I'll  go  up 
there  to-morrow  and  have  a  good  talk  with  Fay 
and  find  out  just  what  the  trouble  is.  If  I  wasn't 
such  a  selfish  brute  I'd  have  done  it  long  ago." 

Any  further  conversation  on  the  subject  was  im- 
possible for  the  moment  as  the  servant  announced 
dinner,  and  it  was  not  until  they  were  once  more 
comfortably  settled  in  the  library  that  Blanche  had 
again  spoken  of  her  fruitless  visit  of  the  afternoon. 
She  was  sitting  before  the  fire  on  the  edge  of  a  low 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  287 

armchair,  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  chin 
resting  between  her  palms.  Fielding  sat  tailor- fash- 
ion on  a  great  white  bear-skin  at  her  feet  and 
watched  the  flames  in  the  broad  hearth  throw 
shadows  across  the  delicate  pink  and  white  face,  the 
sensitive  appealing  eyes,  and  the  masses  of  golden- 
yellow  hair.  About  them  there  was  nothing  that 
was  not  beautiful — every  detail  of  the  room  spoke 
of  good  breeding,  and  good  taste,  and  unlimited 
wealth.  And  then,  too,  both  of  them  had  youth 
and  abundant  health,  and  spirits,  and  unusual  good 
looks,  and  Fielding,  at  least,  had  not  always  known 
the  extreme  comfort  of  such  luxury  as  this.  It  was, 
in  all  ways,  a  moment  when  the  thoughts  of  two  such 
happy  contented  young  people  would  naturally  turn 
to  those  less  fortunate  than  themselves.  They  had 
tried  and  tried  hard  to  account  for  Fay's  attitude 
from  many  different  angles.  Blanche  had  spoken 
of  the  girl's  present  unhappy  position  at  great  length 
and  with  the  most  friendly  and  sincere  concern,  and 
Fielding  had  talked  freely  of  the  days  when  Fay 
and  he  had  been  so  constantly  together. 

"Porter,"  Blanche  said,  "it's  not  an  easy  question 
to  ask,  and  don't  answer  it  if  you'd  rather  not.  But 
in  a  way  it  might  account  for  Fay's  position.  Didn't 


288  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

you  use  to — to  care  a  great  deal  about  her  at  one 
time?" 

"Why,  yes,"  Fielding  answered  quite  frankly. 
"I  do  still,  although  lately  I've  seen  so  very  little  of 
her.  If  you  mean  was  I  ever  in  love  with  Fay,  to 
be  honest,  I  don't  think  that  I  ever  really  was." 

Blanche  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  for 
some  moments  stared  in  silence  at  the  points  of 
flame  shooting  up  from  the  crackling  logs. 

"Isn't  it  just  possible,"  she  said  at  last,  "that — 
well,  that  she  cares  for  you?  You  were  her  best 
friend  once  and  now — " 

"And  now,"  Fielding  interrupted  her,  "you  mean 
that  you  are  my  best  friend." 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  and  in  his  eyes 
that  confused  her  and  made  her  sorry  for  what  she 
had  said.  She  pushed  herself  back  into  the  depths 
of  the  low  chair  and  for  a  moment  closed  her  eyes. 
When  she  opened  them  again  she  found  Fielding 
standing  over  her,  and  then  he  reached  for  her 
hand  which  was  gripping  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and 
raising  it,  brushed  the  tips  of  her  fingers  with  his 
lips, 

"Blanche,"  he  whispered,   "I  wish  with  all  my 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  289 

heart  that  some  woman,  any  woman,  had  the  right 
to  be  jealous  of  me." 

Again  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  with  her  free  hand 
clasped  the  other  arm  of  the  chair. 

"I  know  I  have  no  right — I  know  it's  quite  mad 
of  me — but — " 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  in  their  depths,  where 
there  was  no  place  for  subterfuge,  and  where  one 
could  look  only  for  the  fearless  truth,  he  saw  the 
answer  to  his  unasked  question.  And  so  he  bent 
over  her  still  lower,  so  low  that  his  lips  touched  hers. 
Then  he  stood  quite  erect  and  jerked  his  chin  in  the 
air,  and  threw  back  his  shoulders,  as  all  true  con- 
querors should  do,  and  at  that  moment  the  door 
opened  and  Mr.  Wilmerding  bustled  in. 

"Well,  young  people,"  he  cried,  "how  are  you? 
I've  been  bored  as  I've  never  been  bored  before, 
even  at  a  banker's  banquet." 

"Speaking  for  myself,"  Fielding  said,  "I've  never 
been  so  happy  before  in  my  life.  Mr.  Wilmerding, 
I've  just  asked  your  daughter  to  marry  me." 

The  banker  glared  at  Fielding  with  wide-eyed 
wonder. 

"Bless  my  soul,"  he  gasped,  "but  this  is  very  sud- 
den— at  least  it  is  to  me.  What  did  Blanche  say?" 


290  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

The  girl  walked  over  to  Fielding  and  put  her  arm 
through  his. 

"Blanche  really  didn't  say  anything,"  she  said, 
smiling  frankly  into  her  father's  startled  eyes,  "but 
that's  all  right.  Porter  understands." 

A  few  minutes  later  Mr.  Wilmerding  pushed  an 
electric  button  and  when  the  butler  appeared  he  or- 
dered a  bottle  of  champagne  and  three  glasses.  Just 
as  the  servant  was  closing  the  door,  Wilmerding  add- 
ed :  "And  some  cake.  I  don't  know  why  they  have 
cake  on  these  occasions,  but  according  to  the  best 
novels  they  always  do,  and  you  two  have  got  to  eat 
cake  if  it  chokes  you." 

Thus  it  was  that  Fielding  and  Blanche  Wilmer- 
ding were  betrothed.  During  the  ensuing  talk  it 
was  agreed  between  them  and  the  banker  that  the 
event  should  be  celebrated  by  Porter  taking  a  va- 
cation the  day  following  and  spending  it  alone  with 
Blanche  in  the  back  seat  of  Mr.  Wilmerding's  larg- 
est touring  car. 

"We'll  drive  all  morning,"  Blanche  planned  excit- 
edly, "and  for  lunch  we'll  go  to  one  of  those  rather 
risque  inns,  and  we'll  lunch  all  alone  and  create  a 
terrible  scandal." 

"No,  we  won't,"  Fielding  protested,  "because  no- 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  291 

body  will  know  about  it.  I  positively  refuse  to 
lunch  where  there  will  be  any  one  to  see  us." 

The  happy  party  of  three  said  good  night,  in  fact 
they  said  it  several  times  in  the  library,  and  then, 
with  a  prematurely  wifely  spirit,  Blanche  went  to  the 
front  door  for  fear,  as  she  explained  it,  that  Field- 
ing would  not  put  on  his  overcoat  and  hat  before 
going  out  into  the  cold  night  air. 

The  door  once  closed  behind  him,  Fielding  lighted 
a  cigar,  and  with  his  shoulders  back,  his  head  held 
high,  he  started  with  a  long  swinging  gait  down 
the  avenue  in  the  direction  of  his  home.  Good  for- 
tune had  indeed  been  his.  In  less  than  six  months' 
time  it  seemed  as  if  every  one  of  his  ambitions  and 
his  hopes  had  been  realized.  The  future  lay  before 
him  as  fair  and  as  unruffled  as  a  well  of  crystal 
water.  Health,  the  best  of  all  nature's  gifts,  had  been 
his  from  childhood ;  to  this  had  been  added  a  secure 
and  honorable  position;  and  now  through  his  mar* 
riage  to  Blanche  Wilmerding,  his  last  fear  of  need  or 
any  lack  of  this  world's  goods  would  vanish  forever. 

He  looked  up  at  the  silver  stars  shining  coldly 
down  on  him  from  the  unbroken  stretch  of  purple 
sky  and  thanked  his  God  that  he  had  lived  cleanly, 
and,  to  himself,  made  silent  oath  that  he  would  live 


292  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

worthily  of  her  love  always.  And  then,  at  the 
thought  of  her  love  for  him,  there  was  a  sudden 
tightening  of  the  muscles  in  his  throat  and  he  felt  the 
hot  blood  rush  to  his  face.  Because  she  gave  him  not 
only  her  love,  but  with  it  every  desire  of  his  most 
ambitious  dreams,  and  he  knew  only  too  well  that 
the  one  thing  which  he  ought  to  give  her  in  return 
for  all  this  was  his  love,  and  that  he  could  not  give. 

To  the  full  Fielding  appreciated  the  girl's  un- 
doubted charm,  her  wonderful  sweetness,  and  her 
frail  exquisite  beauty,  but  he  did  not  love  her — not 
as  he  wanted  to  love  her,  not  as  he  had  prayed  and 
would  pray  again  that  he  might  love  her.  That 
she  could  or  ever  would  discover  his  secret  did  not 
for  one  moment  occur  to  him  as  a  remote  possibility. 
He  was  quite  sure  that  he  would  prove  himself  the 
best  of  husbands,  better  perhaps  than  many  of  the 
men  whom  he  knew,  and  who,  years  after  marriage, 
still  loved  their  wives  with  all  the  tenderness  and 
passion  of  the  early  days  of  their  courtship. 

It  was  not  that  at  the  moment  Fielding  loved  any 
one  else,  but  he  knew  well  enough  what  real  love 
was — the  kind  of  love  which  he  should  have  brought 
to  a  woman  so  fine  and  unselfish  as  Blanche  Wilmer- 
ding.  Perhaps  it  was  to  Fay  Clayton  more  than  to 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  293 

any  other  woman  that  he  owed  his  understanding 
of  real  love.  His  desire  of  the  old  days  to  protect 
and  guard  her  had  been  instilled  into  him  through 
years  of  devoted  companionship,  and  yet  in  spite 
of  his  brotherly  attitude  there  had  been  moments 
when  her  wonderful  animal  beauty  had  fairly  over- 
whelmed him,  and  he  would  have  given  everything 
he  possessed  to  have  crushed  her  for  one  moment  in 
his  arms.  But  that  was  the  Porter  Fielding  and  the 
Fay  Clayton  of  Pleasantville,  when  they  lived  under 
stretches  of  blue  sky,  and  their  existence  was  as 
human  as  it  was  clean  and  beautiful.  Much  had 
happened  since  those  days  of  Arcadian  joys,  much 
worldly  knowledge  had  been  learned  by  both  of 
them,  and  even  had  it  been  their  greatest  desire, 
never  again  could  they  enjoy  the  innocent  pleasures 
of  their  joyous  irresponsible  youth. 

But  Porter  Fielding's  regrets  for  the  lack  of  sin- 
cerity of  his  own  feelings  were  far  outweighed  by 
happier  thoughts  of  the  culmination  of  his  hopes 
which  had  been  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  real- 
ized that  night.  By  the  time  he  had  reached  his 
home  he  was  smiling  again  and  was  thoroughly  con- 
tent and  at  peace  with  himself  and  all  the  world.  In 
the  brass  box  in  the  hallway  he  found  a  letter  that 


294  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

had  evidently  been  left  by  a  messenger,  and  when  he 
had  carried  it  to  his  sitting-room,  and  turned  on  the 
lights,  he  saw  that  the  address  was  in  Fay's  hand- 
writing. These  were  the  words  she  had  written  in 
her  brief  note : 

"Dear  Porter: 

"You  may  remember  that  on  the  last  night  we  were 
together  at  Pleasantville — the  night  before  I  left  to 
come  to  New  York — I  asked  you  to  make  me  a 
promise.  It  was  that,  never  mind  what  might  hap- 
pen, you  would  bring  me  to  Pleasantville  when- 
ever I  asked  you,  and  you  made  the  promise.  I  am 
leaving  to-morrow  morning  on  the  ten-forty  from 
Twenty-third  Street  and  shall  arrange  things  so  that 
we  can  return  by  an  afternoon  train.  I  shall  meet 
you  in  the  outside  waiting-room  of  the  station  as 
pay-day  is  not  until  to-morrow  and  I  don't  think  I'll 
have  quite  money  enough  to  buy  my  ticket.  So  you 
see  that  your  coming,  even  apart  from  your  promise, 
is  imperative.  Au  revoir.  As  ever, 

"FAY." 

Fielding  read  the  note  the  first  time  hurriedly 
and  while  he  still  stood  under  the  chandelier.  Then 
he  sat  down  and  read  and  reread  it  slowly  several 
times.  His  first  feelings  were  of  great  surprise  and 
consternation,  and  the  more  he  considered  Fay's  re- 
quest the  greater  his  consternation  grew.  It  seemed 
not  only  thoughtless  but  most  inconsiderate  and  alto- 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  295 

gether  unlike  her  to  ask  him  to  do  her  such  a  favor 
at  such  a  time.  Of  course,  Fielding  realized  that  she 
could  not  be  expected  to  know  of  his  engagement 
to  Blanche  Wilmerding,  or  with  what  keen  pleasure 
both  he  and  the  girl  he  was  to  marry  were  looking 
forward  to  the  long  day  that  they  were  to  spend 
together  on  the  morrow.  But  Fay  did  know  that 
Saturday  was  at  best  only  a  half-holiday  and  that 
under  circumstances  less  unusual  it  would  have  been 
imperative  for  him  to  have  been  at  the  office  during 
the  morning  hours  at  least.  On  the  other  hand  the 
fact  that  Fay  herself  had  a  matinee  the  following 
afternoon  seemed  conclusive  proof  that  she  regard- 
ed her  visit  to  Pleasantville  as  not  only  extremely 
urgent  but  of  the  greatest  possible  importance. 

But  worry  and  fume  over  the  matter  as  he  might 
Fielding  could  not  argue  against  the  two  vital  facts, 
that  he  had  made  a  promise  and  that  he  had  been 
asked,  and  asked  in  no  uncertain  terms,  to  make 
that  promise  good.  His  first  idea  was  to  telephone 
Blanche  at  once  and  to  lay  the  whole  matter  before 
her,  but  on  second  thought  he  decided  that  she  had 
no  doubt  already  gone  to  bed,  and  that  there  would 
be  no  one  down-stairs  to  answer  the  call  and  switch 
it  to  Blanche's  telephone  in  her  own  room.  Should 


296  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

he  wish  to  do  so  there  would  be  plenty  of  time  to 
telephone  her  in  the  morning  before  he  started  to 
meet  Fay.  But  then  he  remembered  that  conversa- 
tions over  the  telephone  were  not  only  not  always 
satisfactory  but  frequently  led  to  misunderstandings 
and,  therefore,  his  final  decision  was  to  write  her  a 
brief  note.  This  he  did  at  once,  merely  stating  that 
he  had  been  called  out  of  town  on  imperative  busi- 
ness, the  nature  of  which  he  could  better  tell  her  on 
his  return  that  evening.  In  a  few  carefully  chosen 
words  he  ended  the  letter  by  assuring  her  that  when 
she  knew  the  circumstances  she  would  not  only  for- 
give him  but  agree  with  him  that  he  had  done  the 
only  thing  possible. 

The  morning  following  he  sent  the  letter  by  mes- 
senger to  Miss  Wilmerding  and  then  went  on  to  the 
station  to  meet  Fay.  He  found  her  waiting  at  the 
door  of  the  ferry  house,  and  when  she  saw  him  she 
hurried  to  him,  laughing,  and  dangling  an  empty 
purse  before  his  eyes. 

"I'm  broke,  Porter,"  she  said,  "stony  broke! 
That's  a  pretty  way  to  go  back  to  the  old  town,  isn't 
it?" 

Porter  smiled,  shook  his  head  with  mock  sol- 
emnity at  the  vacuous  purse,  and  started  toward  the 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  297 

ticket-window.  Fay  put  her  arm  under  his,  and  not- 
withstanding the  crowd  that  surrounded  them, 
absolutely  refused  to  be  quieted. 

"Just  think  of  it,  Porter,"  she  cried,  eagerly 
squeezing  his  arm,  "we're  going  back — back  to  dear 
old  Pleasantville.  You've  run  away  from  business 
and  I'm  going  to  cut  the  matinee  and  probably  get 
fired,  but  we're  going  home,  aren't  we,  we're  going 
home!"  She  suddenly  swung  herself  before  him 
so  that  she  could  look  fairly  into  his  serious  eyes. 
"Smile  a  little,  Porter,"  she  begged — "just  a  little 
smile.  Let's  pretend  we're  a  couple  of  kids  playing 
hooky  from  school !  That's  it,  Porter,  let's  be  kids 
again  just  for  a  day — just  for  a  few  hours.  Won't 
you,  please?" 

Fielding  looked  squarely  into  the  lovely  blue  eyes. 
They  were  laughing  eager  eyes  now — the  same  eyes 
that  he  had  known  months  ago — months  before  the 
glare  of  the  footlights  and  the  white  lights  of  the 
town  had  dulled  them  and  brought  sorrow  to  their 
limpid  depths.  The  shadows,  too,  had  gone  from 
her  face — the  white  drawn  look  had  vanished,  and 
in  its  place  was  the  flush  of  the  old  lovely  pink  and 
white  coloring.  In  Fay  this  morning  Fielding  saw 
the  Fay  of  the  days  when  she  and  he  were  always 


298  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

together,  sailing  over  the  rippling  waters  of  the  Na- 
tasqua,  or  taking  long  walks  through  the  sweet- 
smelling  pine  forests,  or  along  stretches  of  hard 
white  pebbled  beach.  Here  was  the  Fay  of  yester- 
day, a  laughing,  winsome,  beautiful,  joyous  play- 
mate, the  Fay  with  whom  he  had  grown  up,  and 
learned  to  love  as  he  would  have  loved  a  sister. 

It  would  have  taken  a  stronger  man  than  Porter 
Fielding  to  have  been  indifferent  to  the  charm  of 
Fay  Clayton  that  morning.  She  seemed,  somehow, 
to  be  an  integral  part  of  the  brilliant  crisp  December 
day,  the  kind  of  a  day  that  sends  the  blood  racing 
through  the  veins  and  makes  one  long  for  the  broad 
blue  sky,  the  brittle  roads  and  the  sunlit  forest  of 
the  country  of  early  winter.  The  annoyance  that 
Fielding  had  previously  nourished  against  her  on 
account  of  her  request  vanished  before  her  irresist- 
ible spirit  as  the  mist  disappears  before  the  warm 
glow  of  the  summer  sun.  He  knew  that  Blanche 
Wilmerding  had  a  great  sympathy  for  Fay,  and 
thoroughly  convinced  that  she  would  not, only  for- 
give him  but  be  glad  that  he  had  kept  his  promise, 
he  gave  himself  up  to  the  happiness  he  once  more 
felt  in  the  presence  of  his  old  friend.  Her  laugh 
was  as  infectious  as  was  the  very  spirit  of  her  gaiety, 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  299 

and  as  the  train  carried  them  slowly  on  their  way, 
they  laughed  and  chatted  together,  heedless  of 
everything  and  every  one  but  themselves,  and  as 
content  as  two  happy  children.  Fay  told  him  of  her 
experiences  at  the  theater  and  at  the  new  flat  up- 
town, but  they  were  all  amusing  experiences.  If 
Fielding  were  to  accept  these  tales  as  the  whole  truth, 
then  the  girls  in  the  company  were  a  witty,  care-free 
and  most  lovable  crowd,  and  old  man  Hooker  was  to 
Fay  and  Doris  a  source  of  never-ending  delight.  Not 
for  a  moment  did  she  dwell  on  her  true  life,  somber, 
almost  tragic  in  its  very  monotony,  and  stripped 
bare  of  happiness  of  every  kind. 

It  was  when  the  way-train  swung  about  the  curve 
that  brought  it  in  sight  of  the  sea  that  Fielding 
noticed  the  first  change  in  Fay's  mood.  For  the  mo- 
ment her  spirits  seemed  to  sag,  her  amusing  cease- 
less chatter  came  to  a  sudden  end.  She  sat  silent, 
looking  out  at  the  little  villages  of  summer  cottages, 
the  long  stretches  of  gray  sand-dunes,  and  between 
these  at  intervals,  a  patch  of  deep  blue  sea  and  high 
rolling  breakers.  It  was  a  bleak  view  she  had  from 
the  window — so  bleak,  and  gray,  and  out-of-season 
that  even  the  brilliant  sunshine  could  not  warm  it 
into  cheerfulness.  The  wooden  cottages  were  all 


300  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

closed  tight  and  boarded  for  the  winter,  and  the 
broad  clay  streets  were  quite  deserted — it  seemed 
as  if  the  owner  of  the  coast  had  locked  the  door 
and  gone  away  and  left  only  the  high  white- 
crested  breakers  to  guard  his  home. 

When  Fay  had  left  Pleasantville,  six  months  be- 
fore, the  same  narrow  strip  of  land  had  been  alive 
with  young  men  in  flannels,  hatless  pretty  girls  in 
duck  skirts  and  filmy  shirt-waists,  automobiles,  and 
runabouts,  and  summer  "hacks" ;  the  grass  was 
green  then,  and  everywhere  there  were  blooming 
flowers,  and  the  spirit  of  the  summer  holiday  was  in 
the  air.  But  the  sight  of  the  closed  villas,  the  de- 
serted streets,  the  occasional  lonely  pine  tree 
did  not  hurt  Fay  as  it  would  have  hurt  the  vision  of 
the  traveler  who  looked  out  on  the  desolation  of  the 
Jersey  coast  in  winter  for  the  first  time.  Because, 
every  now  and  again,  Fay  recognized  some  land- 
mark— a  house,  or  a  broken  fence,  a  garden,  an  iso- 
lated clump  of  pines — that  told  her  that  she  was 
being  brought  nearer  and  nearer  to  her  old  home. 
Being  of  a  much  less  emotional  temperament,  this 
return  did  not  affect  Fielding  in  the  same  way  as  it 
did  the  girl,  but  at  least  he  appreciated  the  thoughts 
that  were  passing  through  her  mind,  and  so  he  re- 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  301 

mained  silent  and  let  her  dream  on  her  own  foolish 
sentimental  dreams. 

As  the  train  gradually  drew  near  Pleasantville 
and  the  more  frequent  became  the  landmarks  that 
Fay  recognized,  the  more  intense  became  her  inter- 
est and  not  for  a  moment  now  did  she  take  her  eyes 
from  the  passing  landscape.  At  last  the  train 
slowed  down  perceptibly,  and  they  both  knew  that 
that  meant  they  were  about  to  cross  the  old  wooden 
bridge  that  spanned  the  Natasqua.  Fay  was  the  first 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  sunlit  waters  of  the 
fair  little  river  on  which  they  had  spent  the  best  part 
of  their  youth.  As  the  train  rumbled  slowly  across 
the  draw  she  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and 
resting  her  head  against  the  back  of  the  seat,  pressed 
her  arm  tightly  against  Fielding's  and  her  fingers 
closed  like  a  vise  about  his  wrist. 

"It's  the  Natasqua,  Porter,"  she  whispered,  "it's 
the  dear  old  Natasqua.  We're  home  again,  Porter, 
we're  home." 

Until  this  time  neither  of  them  had  mentioned  the 
object  of  their  present  visit  to  Pleasantville,  but  now 
it  seemed  necessary  for  Fielding  to  speak. 

"Do  you  expect  any  one  to  meet  you?"  he  asked. 

Fay  opened  her  eyes  and  once  more  stared  out  of 


302  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

the  window.  They  had  crossed  the  bridge  and  were 
running  through  a  strip  of  pine  woods  that  lay  just 
beyond  the  edge  of  the  town. 

"No,  Porter,"  she  said,  "I  wasn't  expecting  any 
one  to  meet  me." 

"I  thought  perhaps,"  he  suggested,  "that  Mar- 
garet—" 

Fay  shook  her  head.  "No,  not  even  Margaret. 
You  see  Margaret  doesn't  answer  my  letters  any 
more.  I  wrote  to  her  several  times  after — after  the 
trouble,  but  she  didn't  write  at  all  to  me  after  that. 
I  think  it  hurt  me  almost  more  than  anything  else, 
Porter.  We'd  been  so  close,  Margaret  and  I — and 
then  I'd  always  sort  of  looked  after  her,  and  I 
thought,  somehow,  that  she'd  be  sure  to  stick,  even 
if  the  others  did  fail  me." 

"Yes,  or  course,"  Fielding  said,  "I  understand 
and  I'm  sorry.  It  doesn't  seem  like  Margaret,  does 
it?  Had  you  any  plans,  that  is,  plans  for  after  we 
arrive — any  idea  of  what  you  wanted  to  do?" 

Fay  turned  from  the  window  and  looked  at  him 
through  misty  eyes.  Her  brave  brilliant  spirits  of 
the  early  morning  had  disappeared  entirely. 

"Why,  no,  Porter,"  she  said,  "I  had  no  plans.  I 
just  felt  somehow  that  I  had  to  go  back  to  the  old 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  303 

place.  I  was  heartsick  for  a  sight  of  it,  and  last 
night  it  seemed  as  if  I  couldn't  stay  away  any 
longer.  Of  course  I  wanted  to  be  with  you  when  I 
came  back,  but  I  didn't  know  how  to  ask  you  ex- 
actly, and  then  I  remembered  the  promise  you  made 
me.  That  was  a  funny  premonition — how  I  knew 
some  day  that  I'd  want  you  to  bring  me  back  here." 

With  a  great  creaking  of  rusty  brakes,  the  train 
slowly  came  to  a  stop  before  the  station.  As  Fay 
and  Fielding  stepped  from  the  car  to  the  platform, 
the  station  master  waved  his  greeting  to  them  just 
as  if  they  had  left  Pleasantville  the  day  before,  and 
a  driver,  whom  they  both  knew,  inquired  casually  if 
they  wanted  to  hire  his  hack.  But  Fay  said  that  she 
preferred  to  walk,  and  so  they  left  the  station  and 
strolled  slowly  across  the  road.  At  Fielding's  sug- 
gestion they  stopped  in  at  a  little  restaurant  where 
they  ordered  some  sandwiches  and  milk  for  their 
luncheon.  The  woman  who  owned  the  place  re- 
ceived Fielding  with  a  boisterous  welcome,  but  when 
she  recognized  Fay  she  gave  her  a  quick  nod  and 
hurried  on  into  the  kitchen. 

"Do  you  suppose  they  all  feel  that  way?"  Fay 
asked. 

But  Fielding  pretended  not  to  understand  and  be- 


304  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

gan  to  talk  of  other  things.  The  woman  soon  re- 
turned with  the  sandwiches  and  milk,  and  without 
again  glancing  at  Fay,  left  them  alone.  They  ate 
their  simple  luncheon  in  silence  and  when  they  had 
finished  Fay  went  outside  while  Fielding  paid  the 
woman. 

They  walked  slowly  down  the  broad  street  in  the 
direction  of  the  river.  It  was  the  hour  when  the 
very  few  who  spent  their  winters  in  Pleasantville 
stopped  work  for  their  midday  dinner  and  there  was 
absolutely  no  one  in  sight.  The  cottages  which  for 
the  most  part  were  used  only  by  the  summer  visitors 
were  closed  and  the  windows  and  doors  boarded,  a 
sharp  breeze  from  the  ocean  blew  through  the  naked 
branches  of  the  trees,  and  gloom  and  desolation 
seemed  to  brood  over  the  deserted  village.  Fay  but- 
toned the  collar  of  her  coat  tightly  about  her  throat 
and  unconsciously  they  quickened  their  footsteps. 

They  turned  from  the  main  roadway  into  a  path 
that  led  them  to  a  pavilion  and  the  public  boat-house 
where  Fay  had  always  kept  her  sailboat.  The  big, 
gray,  barn-like  structure  was  closed  and  locked  for 
the  winter,  but  the}'-  sat  down  on  a  wooden  bench 
and  looked  out  at  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  Natas- 
qua.  For  a  long  time  neither  of  them  spoke.  Per- 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  305 

haps  more  than  any  other  place  the  river  recalled  to 
them  the  joyous  happy  days  of  their  youth,  and 
both  were  conscious  of  the  same  thought,  the 
thought  that  each  knew  filled  the  other's  mind.  The 
river,  unchanged,  peaceful  and  beautiful,  still  flowed 
on  its  way  to  the  sea,  but  since  they  had  last  seen 
that  river  what  changes  had  come  into  their  lives! 
Fay  shivered  slightly  from  the  cold,  and  getting  up 
from  the  bench,  took  several  quick  turns  up  and 
down  the  porch  of  the  pavilion. 

"And  now?"  Fielding  asked. 

"Now,"  Fay  said,  "I  think  I'd  like  to  go  and  look 
at  the  old  house.  Do  you  mind  coming  with  me? 
I  won't  go  very  near." 

Fielding  smiled  at  her  and  put  his  arm  through 
hers,  and  they  started  briskly  to  walk  toward  the 
Claytons'  home.  The  sun  had  disappeared  behind 
some  fat  gray  clouds,  the  wind  from  the  sea  had 
freshened,  and  the  air  was  growing  cold  and  raw. 
They  turned  from  the  broad  street  into  a  wood  road 
and  it  was  through  a  break  in  the  trees  that  Fay 
caught  the  first  glimpse  of  her  old  home.  They  could 
distinguish  the  figure  of  a  woman  standing  on  the 
porch,  but  they  were  too  far  away  to  recognize  the 
woman's  face. 


3o6  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

"It's  Margaret,  I  think,"  Fay  said.  "I'm  sure 
it's  Margaret.  Don't  you  think  so,  Porter  ?" 

Her  manner  was  so  eager  that  Fielding  quickly 
assured  her  that  she  was  right.  She  leaned  against  a 
pine  tree  and  for  some  moments,  with  her  hands 
clasped  tightly  before  her,  gazed  steadily  at  the  fig- 
ure of  the  girl  on  the  porch. 

"I'm  glad  you  think  it's  Margaret,"  she  at  last. 
"I  like  to  think  that  I  saw  Margaret  again.  Mar- 
garet was  such  a  dear  kid,  wasn't  she,  Porter?" 

Suddenly  Fay  stood  up  very  straight,  threw  her 
shoulders  sharply  back,  and  with  one  more  glance 
at  the  little  gray  cottage,  turned  her  face  from  it. 

"And  now,  Porter,"  she  said,  "I  want  you  to  take 
me  to  the  ocean.  We  must  see  the  ocean  together 
again,  mustn't  we?  And  then  that  will  be  the  last 
favor  I  shall  ask  of  you,  and  you  can  go  back  to 
your  beloved  New  York." 

"But  you're  going  back  with  me?"  he  asked. 

Fay  smiled  and  nodded  her  head. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,  I'm  going  back.  In  a  way, 
I'd  like  to  stay  on,  but  it  doesn't  seem  possible.  I've 
got  to  get  back  to  the  theater  for  the  performance 
this  evening,  and  then  there's  really  no  place  for  me 
to  spend  the  night  here  now;  is  there?" 


Itf    ANOTHER    MOMENT  307 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  not.  I'm  sorry." 
After  this  they  walked  on  in  silence  toward  the 
road  that  led  to  the  sea,  and  Fay  seemed  to  become 
more  and  more  depressed  with  every  step  they  took. 
To  Fielding  the  whole  visit  to  Pleasantville  was  still 
an  enigma,  and  he  could  not  understand  the  melan- 
choly pleasure  that  Fay  had  evidently  anticipated 
in  returning  to  her  old  home.  Under  other  circum- 
stances her  desire  to  go  back  to  her  people  and  the 
scenes  of  her  youth  was  only  natural,  but  at  the  pres- 
ent her  people  did  not  want  to  see  her,  and  the  only 
object  of  her  present  trip,  as  far  as  Fielding  could 
understand  it,  was  to  stir  up  memories  that  he  be- 
lieved had  best  have  been  forgotten  entirely. 

From  the  woods  they  turned  into  the  broad  road- 
way that  ran  straight  to  the  ocean.  Like  all  the  other 
highways  it  was  quite  deserted ;  the  semi-detached 
villas  that  lined  it  on  either  side  were  vacant  and  had 
ugly  rough  boards  nailed  across  the  doors  and  win- 
dows; the  bushes  and  flower  beds  of  the  little  gar- 
dens were  cold  and  barren-looking,  and  many  of  the 
tiny  fenced  lawns  were  strewn  with  tin  cans,  empty 
bottles  and  the  refuse  of  the  summer  that  was  gone. 
They  walked  cautiously  now  along  the  narrow 
wooden  sidewalk,  and  their  progress  was  of  neces- 


3o8  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

sity  very  slow,  for  many  of  the  planks  were  broken 
or  had  rotted  away  entirely.  At  last  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  ocean  and  by  way  of  greeting  Fay 
waved  her  hand  to  it  and  then  started  to  run  through 
the  heavy  white  sand,  as  fast  as  she  could,  toward 
the  beach.  She  called  to  Fielding,  daring  him  to 
race  her  to  the  sea,  but  he  was  tired  and  anxious  and 
was  content  to  follow  slowly. 

When  he  caught  up  with  her  he  found  her  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  the  porch  of  a  deserted  wooden  build- 
ing known  to  the  summer  visitors  as  the  Casino,  but 
which  in  reality  was  a  very  crudely  built  bathing 
pavilion,  and  now  quite  deserted  and  in  a  deplorable 
state  of  neglect  and  decay.  Many  of  the  shingles 
of  which  the  outer  walls  were  made  had  been 
wrenched  loose  by  storms;  the  doors  of  the  long 
rows  of  bath-houses  flapped  and  creaked  on  their 
rusty  hinges,  and  the  frames  of  two  derelict  bottom- 
less rocking-chairs  were  rocked  slowly  to  and  fro  by 
the  wind  that  whistled  and  screeched  its  way  across 
the  deserted  porches  and  through  the  gaping  cracks 
of  the  shattered  building.  All  trace  of  the  brilliant 
sunshine  of  the  morning  was  gone,  and  the  sky  was 
now  filled  with  gray  swiftly-moving  clouds,  and  a 
sharp  piercing  breeze  from  the  ocean  had  turned  the 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  309 

day  bitterly  cold.  Fielding  buttoned  the  collar  of 
his  overcoat  tightly  across  his  throat,  and  sitting 
down  at  Fay's  side,  swung  his  legs  over  the  edge 
of  the  porch.  For  a  long  time  there  was  silence 
while  they  looked  out  on  the  high  white-crested 
breakers  that  kept  on  impotently  smashing  away 
their  terrific  power  on  the  endless  stretch  of  gray 
flinty  beach,  and  tossing  clouds  of  foamy  spray  high 
into  the  air. 

It  was  Fay  who  spoke  first. 

"I  wish  it  would  clear,"  she  said.  "It  would  be 
fine  if  the  sun  were  shining  on  those  breakers  and 
the  spray — wouldn't  it?  Waves  always  look  so 
grim  to  me  in  this  kind  of  weather,  so  terribly  grim. 
It  was  a  day  like  this — at  least  Father  Clayton 
always  said  it  was — when  I  was  washed  up  on  the 
beach — a  raw  stormy  day  in  December." 

The  wind  was  rising  constantly  now,  and  every 
minute  it  was  growing  colder  and  colder.  Fielding 
got  up  and  stamped  his  feet,  but  Fay  sat  still,  her 
back  against  a  pillar,  her  arms  gathered  tightly 
about  her  knees,  apparently  completely  oblivious  to 
the  wind  or  cold. 

"You  know,  Porter,"  she  went  on,  "that  I  always 
called  the  eighth  of  December  my  birthday — the 


3io  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

eighth  was  the  day  I  was  wrecked  and  the  Claytons 
took  me  home  to  live  with  them.  I  was  only — " 

"Why,  that's  funny,"  Fielding  interrupted  her, 
"but  to-day's  the  eighth.  Did  you  know  that?" 

Fay  was  looking  out  at  the  long  foamy  crescents 
running  far  up  the  hard  gray  beach. 

"Yes,  Porter,"  she  said,  but  she  did  not  turn  her 
head  toward  him.  "That's  why  I  wanted  to  come 
down  here  to-day — sort  of  an  anniversary  party." 

"I'm  sorry  I  didn't  remember,  Fay,"  he  said.  "I 
wish  I'd  sent  you  something.  Do  you  remember  the 
foolish  birthday  gifts  we  used  to  give  each  other 
when  we  were  very  little  kids?  We  always  went 
together  and  bought  them  at  old  man  Cope's  place. 
I'm  sorry  I  forgot  about  its  being  your  birthday 
to-day." 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said,  "don't  you  worry, 
Porter.  I'm  glad  you  remembered  at  all.  You  did 
enough  when  you  brought  me  down  here — that  was 
enough  for  anybody  to  do.  I  was  sorry,  too,  that  I 
had  to  ask  you  to  pay  my  fare  down  and  back,  but 
you  see,  to-night  is  pay  night  at  the  theater,  and  I 
was  broke  and  I  couldn't  very  well  borrow  from 
Doris,  and  poor  Mr.  Hooker — he  hasn't  got  any- 
thing at  all.  But  that's  all  right,  Porter,  I  know 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  311 

you  won't  be  sorry  for  all  the  nice  things  you've 
done  for  me  to-day  and — and  during  the  old  times." 
She  put  out  her  hand  and  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes 
as  helpless  and  as  innocent  as  those  of  a  child. 

"I  know  you'll  be  glad,"  she  went  on,  "because 
it's  good  to  remember  those  things  sometimes — very 
good." 

He  held  her  hand  tightly  in  both  of  his  own,  and 
when  he  looked  at  her,  she  saw  a  light  in  his  eyes 
that  she  had  not  seen  there  for  a  long,  long  time. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,"  he  said,  "please  don't 
You  don't  know  how  it  hurts.  I've  been  a  brute  to 
you  lately,  and  I  know  it,  and  you  know  it,  too,  kid." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  made  a  pathetic  little 
effort  to  smile,  but  her  eyes  were  very  dim,  and 
when  she  spoke  there  was  a  catch  in  her  voice. 

"My,  but  it's  good,  Porter,"  she  said,  "to  hear 
you  call  me  'kid'  again.  It's  just  like  the  old  days." 

He  raised  his  hands  and  laid  them  gently  on  her 
shoulders,  but  the  movement  instead  of  calming  her 
seemed  to  rouse  her  to  sudden  action,  and  before  he 
had  time  to  speak,  she  rose  quickly  and  stood  facing 
him.  Then  she  reached  out  and  took  his  handker- 
chief from  the  breast  pocket  of  his  overcoat,  and 
having  dried  her  eyes  with  it,  stuffed  it  back. 


312  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

"I'm  a  sentimental  fool,  Porter,"  she  said,  "just 
a  poor  sentimental  fool.  When  I  started  out  this 
morning  I  took  an  oath  to  myself  that  I  was  going 
to  be  cheerful  and  just  as  amusing  as  I  could  be  all 
day,  and  not  to  cry  once,  or  to  mope,  or  to  be  a  nui- 
sance to  you.  I  wanted  you  to  remember  me  to-day 
as  being — well,  sort  of  jolly,  and  bright,  and  like  I 
used  to  be,  and  instead  of  that — 

Her  voice  trailed  off  and  was  lost  in  the  cry  of  the 
wind  tearing  through  the  deserted  pavilion. 

"It's  not  easy  to  be  cheerful,  Fay,  dear,"  Field- 
ing said,  trying  to  comfort  her,  "when  there's  noth- 
ing but  ghosts  about.  And  such  ghosts  as  we've 
seen  to-day!  Ugh!  They  give  me  the  creeps." 

Fay  looked  Porter  fairly  in  the  eyes,  and  in  an 
uncertain  sort  of  way  smiled  at  him. 

"Porter,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  see  one  more 
ghost  before  I  go  back,  and  if  you  don't  mind,  I 
think  I'd  rather  see  it  by  myself.  I'd  like  to  walk 
up  the  beach  toward  the  Twin  Dunes.  You 
wouldn't  care,  would  you?" 

Fielding  shook  his  head. 

"Why,  of  course  not,  Fay,"  he  said.  "But  it 
does  seem  terribly  morbid,  somehow." 

For  a  few  moments  she  looked  with  frightened 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  313 

unseeing  eyes  out  toward  the  ocean  and  then  back 
to  Fielding. 

"I  know  that,"  she  said.  "I  know  that,  Porter; 
but  still  I  would  like  to  go  back  and  look  at  the  old 
place.  I  can  walk  there  in  five  minutes,  really  I  can, 
and  I  won't  stay  but  a  moment.  Why  don't  you 
take  a  walk  up  the  beach  and  see  how  the  Wilmer- 
dings'  house  looks?  Then  you  can  tell  Miss  Wil- 
merding  about  it  when  you  see  her  the  next  time." 

"Fay,"  Fielding  said  suddenly,  "why  did  you 
treat  Blanche  the  way  you  did  yesterday?  What 
possible  reason  could  you  have  for  refusing  to  go 
to  see  her." 

Fay  shook  her  head  and  stuck  her  hands  deep  into 
the  pockets  of  her  long  coat. 

"I  can't  tell  you  that  just  now,"  she  said.  "It's 
such  a  long  story,  but — but,  Porter,  I'd  like  to  ask 
you  a  question.  Are  you  engaged  to  Blanche  Wil- 
merding?" 

The  suddenness  and  unexpectedness  of  the  ques- 
tion made  Fielding  give  a  little  gasp,  but  he  recov- 
ered himself  at  once  and  quickly  put  out  his  hand. 

"Yes,  Fay,"  he  said,  "I  am  engaged.  Congratu- 
late me,  won't  you?  I  want  you  to  be  the  first  to 
wish  me  luck." 


3i4  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

Her  worst  fears  had  been  realized,  and  the  barrier 
that  for  months  had  been  gradually  rising-  between 
them  reared  before  her  now  to  impossible  heights. 
The  secret  love  dreams  and  all  the  hopes  of  her 
youth  were  over,  definitely,  decisively  over,  and  now 
it  only  remained  for  her  to  be  brave  for  just  a  few 
minutes  more.  With  a  certain  timidity  she  had 
never  felt  before  in  his  presence  she  put  out  her 
hand  and  laid  it  in  his. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  said.  "I  think  it's  just  fine, 
Porter,  and  I  congratulate  you  and — and  I  con- 
gratulate her,  too." 

Fielding  blushed  a  little,  and  in  his  heart  he  felt  a 
great  pleasure  that  it  was  over.  As  if  to  hide  his 
confusion,  he  fumbled  under  his  coats,  and  then,  as- 
suming a  more  practical  manner,  pulled  out  his 
watch. 

"I'll  meet  you  here  in  half  an  hour,"  he  said 
briskly,  "that  will  give  us  plenty  of  time  to  get  the 
three-thirty  back  to  town.  Will  that  suit  you  all 
right?" 

Fay  nodded  and  smiled  a  wistful  sort  of  smile  at 
his  boyish  face  and  eager  laughing  eyes. 

"Yes,  that  will  be  all  right — in  half  an  hour." 


CHAPTER  XI 

SHE  turned  and  started  along  the  path  that 
skirted  the  edge  of  the  grassy  sand-dunes. 
Fielding  stood  looking  after  her,  thinking  that  she 
would  turn  and  wave  to  him,  but  the  dark  figure  con- 
tinued to  trudge  slowly  and  laboriously  through  the 
heavy  sand  and  gave  him  no  sign.  He  decided  at  first 
that  he  would  accept  her  suggestion  and  walk  down 
the  beach  in  the  other  direction  to  have  a  look  at  the 
Wilmerding  cottage.  Then  he  determined  that  such 
a  walk  would  not  only  require  considerable  effort 
but  be  quite  useless  and  that,  in  all  ways,  it  would  be 
much  better  for  him  to  remain  where  he  was.  He 
took  several  quick  turns  up  and  down  the  wind- 
swept porch  of  the  pavilion  and  then  sat  down  and 
waited  for  Fay  to  return. 

She  had  disappeared  from  sight  now  behind  some 
high  dunes,  and  his  mind  turned  back  to  his  own 
affairs  and  how  he  could  best  explain  his  sudden 
visit  to  Pleasantville  to  Blanche  Wilmerding.  It 
had  been  such  a  useless  visit,  full  of  unhappy  mem- 

315 


3i6  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

t 

ories,  and  now  Fay  had  gone  by  herself  to  see  more 
ghosts.  To  Fielding's  practical  unsentimental  mind 
the  whole  day  had  been  sadly  misspent.  He  could 
not  persuade  himself  that  it  was  possible  that  Fay 
had  come  so  far  merely  for  the  melancholy  pleasure 
of  visiting  her  old  home,  the  doors  of  which  were 
forever  closed  against  her,  and  therefore,  he  con- 
tinued mentally  to  grope  for  some  legitimate  reason 
for  her  sudden  desire  to  return  to  Pleasantville. 
And  then,  without  any  apparent  logical  train  of 
thought,  his  mind  suddenly  flew  back  to  the  talk 
they  had  had  months  before,  when  she  had  given 
him  her  reasons  for  wanting  to  go  to  New  York  and 
to  work  for  her  living.  With  a  terrifying  force  the 
words  that  she  had  quoted  then  now  rushed  through 
his  brain — "If  my  life  be  an  ill  thing,  I  can  lay  it 
down." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  with  all  the  speed  in 
every  fiber  of  his  strong  lithe  body  started  to  run 
along  the  path  that  Fay  had  taken.  But  do  the  best 
that  he  could  his  progress  was  very  slow,  for  the 
path  was  deep  in  soft  yielding  sand  and  in  many 
places  had  been  washed  away  and  completely  oblit- 
erated. As  he  plowed  his  way  over  the  dunes,  often 
slipping  and  falling,  lie  cursed  himself  again  and 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  317 

again  for  not  having  remembered  her  threat  to  end 
her  life,  and  at  the  very  place  where  she  had  now  but 
gone.  Running  and  half -exhausted,  he  began  to 
realize  for  the  first  time  the  poverty  of  her  present 
life  and  the  hardships  that  she  must  have  undergone ; 
how  friendless  she  was  and,  worst  of  all,  how  he, 
her  best  friend,  had  neglected  and  deserted  her  at  a 
time  when  she  most  needed  his  help.  At  last  he  saw 
the  Twin  Dunes,  the  landmark  of  the  scene  of  the 
wreck,  and  with  redoubled  effort  he  sped  on  through 
the  crumbling  sand.  And  then,  as  he  hurled  his 
tired  numb  body  over  the  last  hillock,  and  saw 
her  still  alive,  he  gave  a  great  cry  and  running  to  her 
fell  exhausted  at  her  side.  She  was  sitting  on  the 
sand,  looking  with  calm  steadfast  eyes  toward  the 
sea,  her  back  resting  against  the  rib  of  an  abandoned 
fishing  smack.  At  Fielding's  unexpected  coming 
she  showed  no  emotion  at  all. 

"Thank  God,"  he  gasped,  "I'm  not  too  late. 
What  have  you  got  there?" 

His  whole  body  trembling  from  fear  and  exhaus- 
tion, he  pointed  to  Fay's  tightly  closed  right  hand. 
As  if  in  acknowledgment  that  she  was  powerless 
before  his  greater  strength,  she  slightly  shrugged 
her  shoulders,  and  opening  her  hand,  showed  him  a 


3i8  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

small  vial.  He  reached  put,  and  taking  the  little 
blue  bottle,  with  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  tossed  it  into 
the  surf. 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence  between 
them  while  Fay  still  stared  out  at  the  foaming  sea 
and  Fielding  lay  panting  for  breath  at  her  side. 

"Good  God,  Fay,"  he  breathed  at  last,  "I  didn't 
think  it  had  come  to  this."  His  voice  was  trembling 
and  he  looked  into  her  big  blue  eyes  which  he  saw 
were  dry  and  unafraid. 

"It  was  the  best  thing,  Porter,"  she  said.  "It  was 
the  only  thing.  I'd  thought  it  all  out." 

"You're  mad,"  he  gasped;  "you're  sick  and  tired. 
Your  brain's  tired  and  your  body's  tired.  You're 
not  yourself — you're  mad." 

Fay  shook  her  head  and  smiled  at  him  as  a  mother 
might  smile  at  a  wayward  child. 

"No,  Porter,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  mad.  It  wasn't 
as  if  I  hadn't  tried,  because  I  have  tried.  I  seem  to 
have  been  a  sort  of  an  experiment  that  didn't  work 
©ut.  The  waves  threw  me  up  on  the  beach  and  then 
they  said,  'Now,  let's  see  what  you  can  do  with 
yourself,  and  your  good  looks,  and  your  red  hair, 
but  no  father  and  no  mother.'  Well,  I  tried  all 
right,  Porter.  But  I  tell  you  there's  no  niche  for  a 


- 


With  calm  steadfast  eyes  toward  the  sea. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  319 

girl  like  me.  I  suppose  it's  my  disposition.  So 
I  came  back  and  to-day  I  said  to  the  waves :  'I  was 
a  bad  job,  I  failed  utterly,  and  I  know  I  made  an 
awful  mess  of  it.  But,  notwithstanding  all  that,  I 
can  still  say  that  I'm  as  good  and  clean  as  the  night 
you  threw  me  as  a  child  on  the  beach,  and  I  wanted 
to  come  back  to  you  while  I  could  still  say  that.' ' 
With  a  little  regretful  sigh  she  settled  farther  back 
against  the  naked  ribs  of  the  derelict. 

"In  five  minutes,"  she  went  on,  "it  would  have 
been  all  over.  I  would  have  been  free,  and  you 
would  have  been  free,  and  our  troubles  would  have 
been  at  an  end.  I  don't  know  what  becomes  of  girls 
who,  every  minute  of  their  lives,  have  to  fight  the 
too  much  red  blood  that  is  put  into  their  veins,  I 
don't  know.  But  your  future  was  all  right,  anyhow. 
So  don't  you  see,  Porter,  you  meant  well  but  it  was 
really  a  mistake.  Now  I've  got  to  begin  all  over 
again  and  I'm  not  up  to  it.  That's  it — I'm  not  up  to 
it.  Living  isn't  good  enough  for  me.  I'm  tired  and 
I  wanted  so  much  to  quit." 

Fielding  took  her  hands  that  lay  idly  in  her  lap 
and  pressed  them  closely  in  his  own. 

"You're  right,  Fay,"  he  whispered,  "when  you 
say  that  you've  got  to  begin  again,  but  we've  both 


320  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

got  to  begin  again.  This  time  we'll  begin  together 
and  stick  together,  always.  I  know  it's  all  been  a 
mistake,  and  I  know  I've  been  a  brute,  but,  thank 
God,  it's  not  too  late.  I  know  now  that  we  were 
always  meant  to  be  together,  and  to  live  together 
and  never  to  separate.  I  know  that  I've  been  a 
selfish  fool,  and  thought  of  nothing  but  my  own  suc- 
cess and  cared  only  for  the  things  and  the  people 
who  would  bring  me  success.  I  know  all  that.  But 
that's  all  over  now,  Fay.  You  may  say  that  it  took 
a  long  time  and  nearly  an  awful  tragedy  to  bring 
me  to  myself,  and  you've  got  every  right  to  say  it, 
but  surely  you  must  understand  now.  You  must 
know  now,  Fay,  dear,  that  I  love  you." 

Fay  gently  shook  her  hands  free  and  then  clasped 
them  closely  together  in  her  lap. 

"Oh,  Porter,"  she  said,  "it's  all  so  hopeless  now." 

"Hopeless  ?"  he  repeated. 

"Why,  yes.  You  must  know  that  I  can't  marry 
you.  I'd  bring  you  nothing  but  my  love,  and  that 
couldn't  hold  you.  You're  ambitious  and  you  al- 
ways will  be  ambitious.  You  love  position  and 
money  and  all  that  money  brings.  I  would  only 
hold  you  back.  You  may  love  me  now — to-day — I 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  321 

know  you  do  or  you  wouldn't  tell  me  that  you  do. 
But  really  you're  ashamed  of  me." 

"Ashamed  of  you?"  He  put  out  his  hand  toward 
her,  but  with  a  quick  movement  she  pushed  it  away 
from  her. 

"Why,  yes,  Porter.  Have  you  forgotten  the  night 
at  the  restaurant,  after  the  first  performance,  or  just 
the  other  afternoon  at  your  rooms?  You  were 
ashamed  of  me,  and  a  man  can't  be  happy  with  a 
woman  he  is  ashamed  of.  There  would  be  no  more 
chance  of  happiness  for  us  than  there  would  be  for 
a  man  who  married  a  woman  he  had  lived  with. 
You  love  me  a  little,  Porter,  and  you're  terribly 
sorry  for  me,  that's  all."  She  smiled  at  him  and 
then:  "Help  me  up,  won't  you?  .We've  got  to  be 
getting  back  to  town." 

When  they  were  both  on  their  feet  he  looked  her 
squarely  in  the  eyes. 

"You  mean  what  you  say,  Fay?"  he  asked.  "To 
me  it  seems  the  only  chance  that  either  of  us  has 
for  any  happiness." 

"Why,  no,  Porter,"  she  said  smiling,  "it  wouldn't 
do,  believe  me,  and  I  know  us  both  better  now  than 
I  ever  have  in  all  my  life.  Just  remember  this.  The 


322  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

first  time  in  all  these  years  that  you  ever  told  me  that 
you  loved  me  was  just  now  when  you  saw  me  at 
death's  door,  when  you  saved  me  from  killing  my- 
self. That  isn't  love,  Porter,  that's  pity.  You  have 
disowned  me,  and  you  have  shown  other  people  that 
you  were  ashamed  of  me,  and  that  is  a  crime  which 
no  real  woman  ever  forgot  or  ever  forgave.  All 
your  love  for  all  the  rest  of  your  life  couldn't  wipe 
out  the  memory  of  that.  You  must  go  back  to  Miss 
Wilmerding.  You  must  forget  this  day — believe 
me — it  never  existed.  You've  got  a  fine  successful 
life  before  you  with  her,  and  I  wish  you  luck." 

"Do  you  think,"  he  asked,  "that  that  wTould  be 
fair  to  Miss  Wilmerding?  Do  you  think  that  I  am 
going  to  keep  my  love  for  you  a  secret  from  her? 
Do  you  think  that  I  have  fallen  so  low  that  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  her,  as  soon  as  I  see  her,  just  what  I 
have  said  to  you  ?" 

Fay  looked  at  him  with  surprised  curious  eyes, 
and  held  out  her  hand. 

"Forgive  me,  Porter,"  she  said.  "Perhaps  you're 
more  of  a  man  than  I  thought  you  were,  and  I'm  so 
glad  that  you're  going  to  do  the  right  thing." 

She  turned  and  together  they  started  back  along 
the  path  that  led  to  the  Casino  and  to  the  road  to 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  323 

the  station.  Neither  then  nor  later,  during  the  long 
journey  in  the  train,  did  either  of  them  speak  of 
their  feelings  for  each  other,  or  for  any  one  else,  or 
of  the  reason  why  Fay  had  asked  him  to  spend  the 
day  which  was  to  have  been  her  last  at  Pleasantville. 
It  was  six  o'clock  when  Fay  reached  her  apart- 
ment and  found  Doris  and  old  man  Hooker  waiting 
dinner  for  her.  At  her  plate  there  was  a  note  from 
James  Stuart.  This  was  what  he  had  written : 

"DEAR  Miss  CLAYTON:  I  am  giving  a  supper 
after  the  theater  to-night  at  Martin's,  and  as  suppers 
go,  it  promises  to  be  gay  and  amusing — that  is,  if 
you  care  for  this  kind  of  a  supper.  Personally,  I 
don't  care  for  them  at  all,  and  I  am  giving  this 
simply  in  return  for  others  to  which  I  was  weak 
enough  to  go  just  because  I  had  nothing  else  to  do. 
I  am  only  asking  you  because  I  thought  that  you 
might  hear  of  it  and  think  perhaps  I  had  forgotten 
you.  It  may  sound  inhospitable,  but  I  hope  you 
won't  come.  You  don't  belong  to  this  kind  of  a 
party,  and  never  did.  I  invited  Doris  over  the  tele- 
phone in  much  the  same  genial  strain  in  which  I  am 
writing  this,  and  she  seemed  glad  to  refuse.  I  am 
hoping  that  you  will  agree  with  her.  As  ever, 
"Sincerely  yours, 
"JAMES  ALEXANDER  STUART. 

"N.  B.    In  case  you  should  decide  to  go  I'll  have  a 
cab  waiting  for  you  at  your  stage  door." 

Fay  looked  up  at  Doris,  and  their  eyes  met. 


"It's  an  invitation  to  Stuart's  party,"  Fay  said. 
"You're  not  going?" 

Doris  shook  her  head. 

"Not  for  me,"  she  laughed.  "Not  when  the  man 
who  is  giving  the  party  warns  you  off.  I  like  some- 
thing good  to  eat  and  a  dance  as  well  as  any  one, 
but  not  at  that  price.  From  here  it  looks  like  one  of 
those  things.  You're  not  going,  are  you,  Fay?" 

Fay  hesitated  and  slowly  put  the  letter  back  into 
its  envelope.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  was  thinking  of 
it." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  during  which  Mr. 
Hooker  regarded  Fay  solemnly  over  the  rims  of  his 
spectacles  and  Doris  drew  her  thin  lips  into  a  hard 
straight  line. 

"Why,  Fay?"  she  asked. 

Fay  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Why  not?  I've 
had  a  change  of  heart,  Doris.  I'm  going  back  to 
the  dances,  and  the  suppers,  and  to  all  the  fun  I  can 
squeeze  out  of  this  miserable  life  you  and  I  lead. 
I'm  tired  of  being  good  and  virtuous  and  forgiving. 
The  worst  supper-party,  or  dance  or  whatever  it  is, 
is  none  too  good  for  me  now." 

Doris  made  no  answer,  but  started  to  eat  her  sup- 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  325 

per.  Fay's  depressed  mood  quickly  spread  to  the 
others  and  the  three  fellow-boarders  finished  their 
humble  meal  in  gloomy  silence.  When  the  supper 
was  over  Fay  went  to  her  bedroom  and  changed  to 
the  only  dress  she  owned  that  was  at  all  possible  to 
wear  at  Stuart's  party.  It  was  threadworn  and 
crumpled  and,  in  all  ways,  inadequate  to  the  occa- 
sion, but  no  one  appreciated  this  fact  better  than 
Fay  herself.  She  knew  that  among  the  clothes  of 
the  other  women  her  own  dress  would  be  unfortu- 
nately conspicuous  not  only  on  account  of  its  simplic- 
ity, but  the  condition  to  which  long  and  hard  service 
had  reduced  it.  Her  one  pair  of  long  gloves  was  far 
from  fresh,  and  her  white  satin  slippers  were  frayed 
and  soiled,  but  heedless  of  her  appearance  as  well 
as  of  all  the  consequences  to  which  the  party  might 
lead,  she  doggedly  obeyed  the  impulse  that  seemed 
for  the  moment  to  control  her  and  to  drive  her  on. 
.When  she  was  fully  dressed  she  put  on  a  long  coat 
and,  with  Doris,  started  down-town.  It  was  a 
gloomy  silent  ride  they  had  together  in  the  subway 
and  both  of  them  were  glad  when  it  was  at  an  end. 
For  the  first  time  since  they  had  known  each  other  a 
barrier  seemed  to  have  risen  between  them,  and  for 


326  IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT 

the  first  time,  neither  of  them  could  speak  the  truth 
which  was  in  their  hearts. 

Fay  reached  the  theater  at  her  regular  hour,  but 
crossing  the  stage  on  her  way  to  her  dressing-room 
she  met  Morley,  who,  at  least  so  it  seemed  to  Fay, 
had  been  waiting  for  her. 

"Miss  Clayton,"  he  said,  "you  weren't  at  the 
matinee.  Why?" 

Fay  knew  that  she  probably  would  have  trouble 
on  account  of  her  absence,  but  her  brain  had  been 
filled  with  other  things,  and  she  had  given  the  mat- 
ter but  little  thought.  Somehow,  her  mind  had 
seemed  as  indifferent  to  this  as  it  had  to  everything 
else,  but  now  the  trouble  was  upon  her,  and  very 
much  sooner  than  she  had  expected. 

"I'm  afraid  I  have  no  excuse,"  she  said  weakly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  Morley  demanded, 
"that  you  weren't  sick — that  you  have  no  doctor's 
certificate — nothing  ?" 

Fay  looked  at  him  with  scared  terrified  eyes. 

"Nothing,"  she  repeated.  "There's  no  reason 
that  I  can  give  you." 

By  way  of  answer  Morley  shrugged  his  heavy 
shoulders  and  started  across  the  stage,  but  when  he 
had  gone  but  a  few  steps,  he  stopped  again. 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  327 

"And,  Miss  Clayton,"  he  called  to  her,  "I  think  I'll 
give  you  your  two  weeks'  notice  now.  You  needn't 
go  on  after  to-night.  You  can  stop  in  at  my  office 
any  day  next  week  and  get  your  salary." 

Fay  swung  about,  but  with  a  great  effort  she 
checked  the  flow  of  words  that  sprang  to  her  lips 
and  which  she  wanted  to  hurl  at  the  big  burly  figure 
retreating  across  the  dimly-lighted  stage.  It  was 
her  last  chance  to  tell  him  all  she  thought  of  him 
and  the  profession  he  dishonored.  For  months  she 
had  watched  him,  and  his  man,  Sedley,  trade  op- 
portunity on  the  stage  for  such  favors  as  the  women 
of  the  company  would  grant  them.  During  all  this 
time  she  had  seen  ability  and  hard  work  over- 
looked and  pretty  faces  and  easy  morals  pushed  to 
the  fore. 

From  the  day  that  she  had  ignored  Max  Lusk, 
had  definitely  refused  to  accept  his  hospitality,  and 
be  seen  with  him  in  public  places,  she  had  fallen  into 
disfavor.  From  that  moment  her  opportunity  for 
preferment  was  gone,  and  she  knew  it,  and  every 
member  of  the  company  knew  it.  It  was  on  such 
scandal  that  the  women  with  whom  she  worked 
seemed  to  live  and  thrive — it  was  the  ozone  of  the 
rank  stifling  air  of  the  dressing-rooms,  and  shut 


328  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

out  every  clean  decent  thought  from  their  narrow 
selfish  lives. 

All  this  and  more  she  would  have  hurled  at  the 
self-complacent  Morley,  who  had  robbed  her  of  her 
livelihood,  but  in  his  own  world  his  power  was  abso- 
lute, and  knowing  this,  Fay  turned  slowly  back  and, 
beaten  and  cowed,  continued  on  her  way  to  the 
dressing-room.  Once  there  she  immediately  related 
the  incident  of  her  ignominious  dismissal,  because 
she  preferred  to  tell  of  it  in  her  own  way  before 
Morley  had  told  of  it  in  his  to  his  particular  favor- 
ites in  the  company.  The  news  was  greeted  by  the 
other  girls  with  a  chorus  of  sympathy  and  commis- 
eration, and  a  great  and  noisy  tirade  against  stage- 
managers  in  general  and  Morley  in  particular.  But 
in  five  minutes  or  less,  and  to  Fay's  great  relief,  the 
subject  was  forgotten,  and  the  talk  turned  to  the 
promised  wonders  of  Stuart's  supper-party. 

Her  mind  and  body  numb  from  the  disasters  of 
the  day,  Fay  managed,  somehow,  to  go  through  the 
performance,  and  to  change  to  the  clothes  she  was 
to  wear  at  the  dance.  With  indifference,  she  re- 
garded the  gorgeous  gowns  and  the  jewels  with 
which  the  other  women  in  the  dressing-room,  who 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  329 

were  going  to  the  party,  adorned  themselves.  She 
was  as  indifferent  to  their  wonderful  clothes  and 
to  their  brilliant  jewels  as  she  was  to  the  women 
who  wore  them — as  she  was  indifferent  to  every- 
thing. When  she  was  quite  ready  to  go  she  turned 
for  a  last  look  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  and  her  only 
thought  was  one  of  regret.  "What  a  pity,"  she 
sighed  to  the  tired  face  in  the  glass,  "such  a  pity  that 
Porter  didn't  let  me  end  it  all  down  there  on  the 
beach." 

When  Fielding  had  returned  to  New  York  after 
his  day  with  Fay  at  Pleasantville  he  had  gone  di- 
rectly to  the  home  of  Blanche  Wilmerding.  He 
had  formed  no  definite  idea  as  to  what  he  was  go- 
ing to  say  or  to  do,  but,  whatever  the  outcome,  he 
felt  that  the  sooner  it  was  over  the  better  it  would 
be  for  every  one  concerned.  He  found  her  alone  in 
the  library,  as  if  she  had  been  awaiting  his  coming, 
and  she  received  him  in  the  same  friendly  way  with 
which  she  had  always  welcomed  him,  but  not  as 
she  might  have  been  expected  to  welcome  him  after 
the  events  of  the  night  before.  She  was  sitting  in  a 
low  chair  at  the  far  end  of  the  hearth,  and  when 
she  had  given  him  her  hand,  and  he  had  taken  his 


330  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

favorite  stand  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  she 
looked  at  him  with  a  most  assuring  friendly  smile. 

"Well,  Porter,"  she  said,  "it's  up  to  you." 

He  clasped  his  hands  behind  him  and  looked  back 
at  the  smiling  interested  face,  but  the  man's  face 
was  hard-set,  and  there  was  no  smile  in  his  eyes  nor 
on  his  lips.  He  was  the  chief,  and,  indeed,  the  only 
witness  for  the  defense,  and  he  showed  that  he 
realized  his  position  thoroughly. 

"The  night  before  Fay  Clayton  left  her  home, 
about  six  months  ago,"  he  began,  "she  asked  me  to 
promise  her  that,  if  ever  it  should  be  her  wish,  I 
should  return  with  her  to  Pleasantville.  When  I  got 
home  last  night  I  found  a  note  from  her  exacting 
the  fulfilment  of  that  promise.  It  may  have  been 
a  purely  sentimental  idea,  created  by  the  keen  re- 
gret she  felt  at  leaving  her  home,  a  mere  foolish 
whim  of  a  very  emotional  girl,  if  you  like,  but  be 
that  as  it  may,  I  had  made  the  promise." 

He  glanced  at  Blanche  and  found  her  looking 
steadily  beyond  him  to  the  blazing  logs  in  the  fire- 
place. 

"And — and  you  kept  your  promise?"  she  asked. 

Fielding  nodded.     "Yes,  I  kept  my  promise." 

"And  if  it  is  right  for  me  to  ask,"  Blanche  went 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  331 

on,  "can  you  tell  me  why  she  particularly  wanted 
you  to  go  back  to  Pleasantville  with  her,  now — 
to-day?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  think  I  can.  I  had  been  a  great 
deal  to  Fay — that  is,  as  far  as  her  life  down  there 
was  concerned.  We  had  grown  up  together ;  we  had 
no  other  friends,  we  were  together,  always ;  in  a  way 
we  had  always  loved  each  other.  She  went  there 
to-day  to  see  the  place  for  the  last  time,  and  she 
wanted  to  have  me  with  her.  After  all,  it  seems  but 
a.  natural  wish.  If — " 

"You  said  just  now,"  Blanche  interrupted  him, 
"that  she  went  there  to  see  the  place  for  the  last 
time.  Why  the  last  time?" 

For  a  moment  Fielding  hesitated  and  clenched  his 
hands  tightly  behind  him. 

"Fay  didn't  intend  to  come  back.  She  was  tired, 
and  sick,  and  terribly  poor,  and  quite  hopeless  about 
the  future.  There  was  nothing  beautiful  in  life  left 
to  her.  She'd  had  enough — she  wanted  to  quit, 
she—" 

The  girl  before  the  fireplace  suddenly  threw  up 
her  hand  for  him  to  stop,  and  pressed  the  back  of 
the  other  hand  against  her  closed  eyes. 

"Stop,"  she  begged,  "please  stop." 


332  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

Save  for  the  crackling  of  the  logs  and  the  ticking 
of  the  clock,  the  room  was  quite  silent.  It  was  the 
girl  who  spoke  first.  She  took  her  hand  from  be- 
fore her  startled  eyes  and  stretched  it  toward  him. 
But  he  did  not  take  it,  and  stood  staring  down  at 
her,  and  for  the  first  time  she  saw  how  tired  and 
gray  was  his  face. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Porter,"  she  said.  "So  very,  very 
sorry  for  both  of  you.  I  know  how  awful  a  scene 
like  that  must  have  been  to  you.  Forgive  me,  dear, 
won't  you,  for  making  you  tell  me  ?" 

"I'm  sorry,  Blanche,"  he  said,  "but  I  haven't  told 
you  everything  yet,  and  I've  got  to.  I've  got  to  do 
it,  and  I've  got  to  do  it  now." 

He  pulled  himself  up  very  straight  and  looked 
down  at  her  with  his  tired  meaningless  eyes. 

"Last  night,"  he  said,  "I  told  you  that  I  had 
never  loved  Fay  Clayton,  and  I  guess  I  lied  to  you. 
But,  before  God,  Blanche,  I  didn't  mean  to  lie  to 
you.  It  was  only  to-day,  when  I  saw  her  sitting 
there  with  that  damned  bottle  in  her  hand,  that  I 
knew  how  much  I  cared.  I  cared  for  her  then  as 
I  have  never  cared  for  any  one  in  this  world,  and  I 
told  her  so." 

Blanche  pulled  herself  slowly  out  of  her  chair 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  333 

and  went  over  to  a  broad  table  in  the  center  of  the 
room  and  for  some  moments  stood  silent,  looking 
down  at  the  magazines,  arranged  in  neat  rows  on 
the  table. 

"I'm  sorry,  Porter,"  she  said  at  last,  still  look- 
ing down  at  the  magazines.  "I  know  just  to  say 
that  I'm  sorry  doesn't  sound  very  adequate,  but  I 
don't  know  exactly  what  I  should  say.  Of  course, 
I'm  glad  for  you  that  you  found  out,  and  I'm  glad 
for  Miss  Clayton's  sake,  too,  because  she's  made  a 
good  fight  of  it,  and  then,  I'm  sure  she's  fine  all 
through.  I  guess  that's  all,  Porter,  except  I  hope 
that  you'll  be  very  happy  together,  but,  of  course, 
I'm  sure  you'll  both  be  that — very,  very  happy." 

"Fay's  not  going  to  marry  me,"  Fielding  said 
bluntly,  "that  is,  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

He  glanced  at  Blanche  and  the  glow  from  a  big 
yellow-shaded  lamp  on  the  table  showed  the  look  of 
complete  surprise  on  her  pale  tired  face. 

"You  mean,"  she  said,  "that  she  won't  marry 
you?" 

"That's  is,"  Fielding  went  on  doggedly.  "She 
says  I  was  ashamed  of  her,  and  in  a  way,  she's  right. 
I  wasn't  ashamed  of  her,  but  I  was  ashamed  of  her 
friends,  and  I  neglected  her  terribly.  I  suppose  I 


334  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

was  afraid  that  she'd  stand  in  my  way,  and  so  I 
threw  her  aside,  just  as  I  threw  every  one  else  aside 
who  I  didn't  think  could  help.  Things  came  too 
easy  for  a  while,  I  suppose,  and  I  lost  my  head. 
That's  all — I  was  selfish  and  I  lost  my  head." 

When  he  looked  at  Blanche  again  he  found  her 
regarding  him  with  dull  curious  eyes,  as  if  he  were 
a  stranger,  and  she  could  not  understand  his  pres- 
ence there. 

"What  a  lot  of  trouble  you've  made,  Porter,"  she 
said,  "what  a  lot  of  trouble  for  every  one — for  that 
poor  Clayton  girl,  and  for  yourself,  and  for  me, 
and  for  dear  old  dad.  He  was  so  happy  last  night 
• — just  like  a  kid." 

"I  suppose,"  Fielding  said,  "I  had  better  speak  to 
him  now — at  once." 

But  Blanche  shook  her  head. 

"No,  Porter.  I'd  rather  do  that  myself.  We're 
such  pals,  dad  and  I.  I  think,  perhaps,  I  could  make 
him  understand,  or — or  I  guess  I'll  tell  him  it  was 
my  fault,  and  that  I  had  changed  my  mind.  That 
will  make  things  better  for  you — I  mean  better  for 
you,  at  the  office." 

"Thank  you,"  Fielding  said.     "It's  just  like  you, 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  335 

Blanche,  to  think  of  me  and  my  future  when  all  I 
deserve  is  to  be  ordered  out  of  your  house." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  talk  like  that,  Porter,"  she  said. 
"It  was  much  better  for  you  to  be  honest — much 
better.  Good  night." 

She  held  out  a  cold  nerveless  hand,  and  he  took 
it  limply  in  his  own.  "And  sometime,"  she  went 
on  in  the  same  even  voice,  "some  of  these  days,  you 
will  come  to  see  us  again,  won't  you?  I'll  write 
you  when  to  come.  Good  night  again." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  "you've  been  very  kind — 
kinder,  I  know,  than  any  one  has  ever  been  to  me 
before." 

Without  looking  at  the  girl's  face  again,  he 
dropped  her  hand.  And  with  the  knowledge  that  he 
was  leaving  the  wreck  of  every  hope  and  of  every 
ambition  of  his  youth  behind  him,  he  went  slowly 
out  of  the  room. 

When  he  had  reached  the  pavement  his  footsteps 
turned  mechanically  toward  his  own  home.  It  was 
just  past  seven  o'clock  and  the  avenue  was  filled 
with  automobiles,  and  taxicabs,  and  carriages  taking 
people  to  dinner.  He  looked  at  the  smiling  faces 
and  the  pretty  light-colored  dresses  of  the  women 


336  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

and  wondered  that  he  felt  no  resentment  or  envy 
of  any  kind.  In  a  dazed  sort  of  way  he  realized 
that,  after  all,  the  fault  had  all  been  his.  There 
was  no  one  on  whom  he  could  shift  the  blame  of 
his  tragedy  even  had  he  wished  to  do  so :  everything 
that  this  world  could  give  had  been  granted  him, 
and  he  had  thrown  it  away.  And  then,  of  a  sudden, 
he  discovered  that  he  had  unconsciously  quickened 
his  steps  and  that  his  one  great  desire  was  to  get 
back  to  his  own  rooms.  He  wanted  to  be  alone, 
and,  alone,  to  try  and  find  out  how  some  new  struc- 
ture could  be  reared  from  the  chaos  to  which  he 
had  razed  his  own  life. 

Once  at  home  he  lighted  his  pipe  and  poured  him- 
self out  a  glass  of  Scotch.  The  drink  would  make 
him  think  the  better,  he  argued,  and  now  was  the 
moment  for  him  to  think  and  to  act  quickly.  He 
lighted  the  fire,  and  for  a  long  time  sat  gazing  dully 
at  the  burning  logs  and  wondering  why  his  brain 
refused  to  act  or  failed  to  grasp  the  extreme  seri- 
ousness of  his  position.  It  was  well  enough  for 
Blanche  to  tell  her  father  that  it  was  she  who  had 
erred,  but  how  was  he  to  be  sure  that  her  father 
would  believe  her,  or  that  in  case  he  questioned 
her,  she  would  not  break  down  and  sob  out  the 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  337 

whole  miserable  truth.  He  filled  his  glass  again, 
and  when  his  pipe  went  out,  he  was  greatly  surprised 
to  find  that  he  lacked  the  effort  or  the  desire  to  re- 
light it.  The  long  hard  day  and  the  endless  nervous 
strain  had  begun  to  tell  on  him  at  last,  and  just  as 
he  had  finished  his  second  glass  of  Scotch,  he  fell 
into  a  heavy  feverish  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  WAS  three  hours  later  when  Fielding  awoke, 
and  glancing  at  the  clock,  found  that  it  was  a 
quarter  to  eleven.  For  some  time  he  sat  gazing 
dully  at  the  embers  on  the  hearth,  wondering  how 
long  it  had  been  since  he  had  fallen  asleep  and  try- 
ing to  bring  order  out  of  his  confused  thoughts. 
And  then,  of  a  sudden,  all  the  miserable  scenes  of 
that  dreary  day  of  tragedy  suddenly  flashed  through 
his  tired  brain  like  a  series  of  shafts  of  lightning. 
He  pulled  himself  to  his  feet,  buttoned  his  coat 
about  him,  and  took  a  few  rapid  turns  up  and  down 
the  room,  for  it  was  very  cold.  His  first  thought 
was  to  undress  and  go  at  once  to  bed,  but  then  he 
remembered  that  he  had  had  no  dinner,  and  he 
decided  to  go  to  a  restaurant  and  get  the  best  sup- 
per that  money  could  buy.  He  was  not  hungry,  but 
the  night  was  yet  young  and  he  dreaded  to  be  alone 
with  his  unhappy  thoughts.  A  cold  bath  restored 
his  circulation  and  cleared  his  brain,  and  when  he 
had  put  on  his  evening  clothes  he  started  forth.  At 

338 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  339 

the  avenue  he  hesitated,  uncertain  which  way  to 
turn,  but  he  saw  the  lights  at  Martin's  at  Twenty- 
sixth  Street,  and  decided  to  go  there  for  his  solitary 
supper.  Even  if  he  found  no  one  there  whom  he 
knew,  there  would,  at  least,  be  a  crowd,  and  music, 
and  good  things  to  eat  and  drink,  and  the  chance  to 
forget. 

He  found  a  little  side-table  unoccupied,  and  in  a 
short  time,  through  the  aid  of  several  cocktails  and 
a  bottle  of  champagne,  he  had,  to  a  great  extent, 
forgotten  his  troubles  and  was  regarding  the  future 
from  a  viewpoint  entirely  artificial  but  roseate  in 
the  extreme. 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock,  and  most  of  the  crowd 
in  the  restaurant  had  gone,  when  two  men  whom  he 
knew  slightly  passed  his  table.  They  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  'speak  to  him  and  comment  on  his  lonely 
appearance,  and  then,  as  they  started  on  their  way 
again,  one  of  them  called  back  to  him :  "Why  don't 
you  come  on  up-stairs  to  Jimmie  Stuart's  party? 
Every  good-looking  girl  in  town's  there.  Jimmy's 
giving  a  perfectly  good  party.  Better  come  along." 

"Much  obliged,"  Fielding  said,  "but  I  don't  think 
I  know  him." 

Both  of  the  men  laughed  uproariously.     In  their 


340  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

exhilarated  condition  they  would  probably  have 
laughed  at  anything,  but  this  remark  of  Fielding's 
seemed  to  strike  them  as  particularly  humorous. 

"That's  all  right,"  one  of  them  explained, 
"Jimmy  told  me  to  ask  any  one  I  wanted.  A  dozen 
men  more  or  less  won't  make  any  difference  with 
that  crowd  up  there." 

Fielding  had  always  made  it  a  fixed  rule  to  avoid 
the  kind  of  supper-parties  he  supposed  this  one  to 
be.  When  men  had  invited  him  to  them  he  had  re- 
fused because  he  did  not  believe  that  they  would  ap- 
peal to  him,  and  because  he  also  feared  that  they 
would  hurt  him  in  a  business  \vay.  But  now,  in  his 
present  optimistic  state  of  mind,  he  cared  nothing 
for  his  business  position,  and  was  ready  and  eager 
for  any  kind  of  amusement  that  offered  itself. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  go." 

The  two  young  men  waited  while  he  paid  his 
check  and  then  he  went  with  them  to  the  supper- 
rooms  up-stairs. 

The  whole  floor  was  given  over  to  the  party,  and 
a  few  minutes  after  his  arrival  Fielding  had  lost  his 
two  friends  and  was  wandering  alone  through  the 
brilliantly  lighted  rooms.  He  found  them  filled 
with  many  exhilarated  men  and  more  wonderfully 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  341 

dressed  and  sprightly  women  from  the  musical  com- 
edies. 

He  noticed  that  many  of  the  men  and  not  a  few 
of  the  women  were  smoking,  and  so  he  lighted  a 
cigarette,  and  accepted  the  proffer  of  a  glass  of 
champagne  from  a  passing  waiter.  While  he  had 
but  slight  desire  to  mingle  more  intimately  with  the 
crowd,  he  found  much  pleasure  in  watching  its 
innocent,  if  somewhat  boisterous,  antics.  Some  of 
the  men  he  knew  slightly,  but  they  welcomed  him 
with  enthusiasm,  and  although  he  had  never  met 
any  of  the  women,  many  of  them  greeted  the  good- 
looking  newcomer  with  marked  signs  of  friendli- 
ness. And  Fielding,  with  smiles  of  gratitude  and 
pleasure,  acknowledged  their  welcome. 

It  was  much  more  gay  and  amusing  and  brilliant 
than  any  dance  he  had  ever  seen.  In  addition  to 
the  sensuous  music,  the  golden  glow  of  the  warm 
rooms,  the  real  and  artificial  beauty  of  the  women, 
and  their  gorgeous  and  exquisite  clothes,  there  was 
an  air  of  natural  gaiety  abroad  and  a  spirit  of  aban- 
don that  appealed  to  him  greatly  and  satisfied  his 
senses  completely.  His  troubles  became  purely 
imaginary,  and  then  vanished  completely  before  this 
vision  of  false  fairy-land.  Supremely  happy  and 


342  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

content  again,  he  continued  to  smoke  his  cigarette, 
sip  his  glass  of  champagne,  and  look  on  with  wide- 
open  admiring  eyes  at  the  brilliant  and  sensuous 
passing  show. 

Eventually  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  not  yet 
met  his  host,  and  his  slowly  moving  mind  having 
reached  the  conclusion  that  this  social  tradition, 
however  trivial,  should  be  accomplished  at  once,  he 
started  in  search  of  any  mutual  friend  who  would 
introduce  him.  He  had  gone  but  a  few  steps,  how- 
ever, when  he  was  confronted  by  a  pink  and  white 
face  and  a  pair  of  large,  blue,  pathetic  eyes.  She 
was  a  very  pretty  girl  with  a  small  slight  figure 
which  was  but  ill-concealed  in  a  clinging  dress  of 
black  tulle  and  jet,  and  which  seemed  to  have  been 
made  especially  to  show  off  her  wonderfully  white 
and  perfectly  molded  arms  and  exquisitely  rounded 
throat.  Her  manner  was  far  from  bold  but  rather 
intensely  pleading. 

"Won't  you  please  dance  with  me?"  she  begged. 
"I  do  so  want  to  dance  and  nobody  seems  to  care  for 
me  any  more." 

Under  the  circumstances  further  words  were  quite 
useless,  and  smiling  his  extreme  pleasure,  Fielding 
put  his  arm  about  the  girl,  and  they  started  to  dance. 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  343 

When  they  had  reached  the  far  end  of  the  room  he 
unconsciously  looked  over  his  partner's  shoulder, 
and  his  glance  fell  upon  a  girl  with  wonderful  red 
hair  and  a  white  dress  conspicuous  for  its  simplicity. 
At  the  next  turn  of  the  waltz  he  looked  again  and 
then  he  knew  that  it  was  Fay.  She  was  sitting 
against  the  wall  on  one  of  the  long  rows  of  chairs 
that  lined  the  room,  and  was  smiling  gaily  and  chat- 
tering volubly  to  the  young  man  next  to  her.  Field- 
ing suddenly  stopped  dancing,  and  mumbling  a  few 
words  of  apology,  led  his  unknown  partner  to  a  seat 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  then,  without  fur- 
ther ceremony,  left  her  there,  surprised  and  indig- 
nant. 

Fay  did  not  see  Fielding  until  he  stood  directly 
before  her,  and  then  she  looked  up  at  him  with  wide- 
open  eyes  of  surprise  and  astonishment. 

"Why,  Porter,"  she  gasped,  "what  are  you  doing 
here?" 

Ignoring  her  question,  he  squared  his  shoulders 
and  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes.  "May  I  speak 
to  you  for  a  moment?"  he  asked. 

His  manner,  as  well  as  his  speech,  was  so  abrupt, 
even  rude,  that  Fay,  in  fear  of  a  scene,  turned 
quickly  to  the  man  to  whom  she  had  been  talking 


344  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

and  asked  to  be  excused,  promising  to  return  to  him 
in  a  few  minutes.  Somewhat  surprised  and  con- 
fused by  Fielding's  sudden  appearance  on  the  scene, 
the  young  man  quickly  got  up,  smiled  and  bowed 
his  assent  to  the  unexpected  interruption  of  his 
tete-a-tete,  and  then  calmly  settled  back  in  his  seat 
to  wait  for  Fay's  return. 

Fay  took  Fielding's  arm,  and  in  silence  he  led  her 
slowly  through  the  whirling  mass  of  dancers  to  a 
little  room,  directly  across  the  hall  from  the  ball- 
room, and  where  they  were  quite  alone.  She  leaned 
against  a  table  and  folded  her  arms.  Experience 
had  taught  her  something  of  how  to  deal  with  men 
whose  nerves  were  on  edge  from  too  much  cham- 
pagne, and  she  was  not  afraid. 

"Well,  Porter,"  she  said,  "what  is  it?" 

His  face  was  hard-set  and  white  with  anger,  and 
she  saw  with  how  great  an  effort  he  was  trying  to 
control  himself. 

"I  want  to  know,"  he  demanded,  "what  you  are 
doing  at  a  place  like  this?  Why  do  you  choose  to 
associate  with  women  of  this  kind?  You  know 
what  kind  of  women  they  are  as  well  as  I  do.  Why, 
I  ask  you?" 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  345 

Fay  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  forced  an  unwill- 
ing smile  to  her  lips. 

"Why?"  she  repeated.  "Because  these  women  are 
my  friends ;  these  are  the  women  I  work  with.  I'm 
not  ashamed  of  them." 

"Then  you  mean,"  Fielding  threw  at  her,  "that 
you  have  deliberately  sunk  to  this  sort  of  thing?" 

For  a  moment  Fay  hesitated  and  stared  indiffer- 
ently into  Fielding's  eyes. 

"Really,  Porter,"  she  said,  "there  doesn't  seem  to 
be  anything  else.  I  tried  starving  in  complete  re- 
spectability, and  I  wanted  to  try  suicide,  but  you 
wouldn't  let  me.  I  told  you  it  would  have  been 
much  better  if  you  had  let  me  have  my  way — much 
better  for  every  one, — better  for  me,  and  better  for 
you,  and  better  for  Blanche  Wilmerding.  Did  you 
tell  her — I  mean  about  what  happened  to-day  ?" 

Fielding  nodded.    "Yes,  I  told  her." 

"And  she  threw  you  out  ?" 

"Yes,  she  threw  me  out." 

Fay  rested  her  hands  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and 
throwing  up  her  chin,  smiled  at  the  ceiling  as  if  she 
had  found  something  amusing  in  the  gaudy  fres- 
coes. 


346  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

"I'm  glad  you  think  it's  something  to  laugh  at," 
Fielding  said. 

Fay  glanced  at  him,  and  then  beyond  to  the  ball- 
room, filled  with  its  crowd  of  laughing  boisterous 
dancers. 

"I  wasn't  smiling  at  that,"  she  said.  "I  was  think- 
ing how  funny  it  was  that  after  six  months  both  of 
us  should  come  to  this."  She  nodded  toward  the 
noisy  ballroom.  "Do  you  remember  the  wonderful 
plans  we  laid  out  with  such  care  for  ourselves,  the 
successes  that  were  to  come  to  us  so  easily?  Six 
short  months  ago — just  think  of  it — and  now  here 
we  are,  two  derelicts !  Two  derelicts  stranded  on  a 
hostile  shore,  our  youth  wrecked  by  our  own  foolish 
acts !  Why,  Porter,  we  don't  count  even  in  a  crowd 
like  this." 

Fielding  put  out  his  hand  and  grasped  her  tightly 
by  the  arm. 

"We  still  have  each  other,"  he  whispered.  "Come 
away  with  me,  and  if  we  stick  together,  we  can  win 
out  yet  in  spite  of  everything.  I  still  have  my  posi- 
tion, and — " 

She  shook  her  arm  free,  and  her  eyes  blazed  with 
indignation. 

"You're  crazy,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  sorry  to  say  it, 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  347 

Porter,  but  you're  not  yourself.  Do  you  want  me 
to  tell  you  what  I  really  think  of  you  as  a  man?" 

Fielding  pulled  himself  up  very  straight  and 
looked  her  squarely  in  the  eyes.  The  manner  and 
words  of  the  girl  seemed  suddenly  to  have  sobered 
him  and  brought  him  to  a  realization  of  his  position. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "please  go  on.  I  want  you  to  tell 
me." 

"I  think,"  she  began,  and  her  voice  was  very  even 
and  without  apparent  feeling  of  any  kind,  "I  think, 
Porter,  I  have  always  thought,  that  with  your 
friendship  I  would  have  had  a  chance.  I  believe 
that  with  you  to  turn  to  I  might  have  won  out  even 
against  the  odds  that  every  poor  good-looking  girl 
must  beat  out  in  this  big,  heartless,  rotten  town. 
My  love  for  you  was  the  one  thing  that  counted  in 
my  life,  and  always  had  counted.  It  was  the  one 
thing  which  I  clung  to,  and  that  kept  alive  my  hope 
for  the  future.  It  was  the  intangible  safeguard  that 
most  girls  get  at  their  mother's  knee.  And  you 
threw  that  away.  Yes,  you  did,  Porter.  You  were 
selfish  and  ambitious,  and  you  threw  it  away.  You 
hurt  me,  and  you  hurt  me  again  and  again,  until  I 
grew  to  understand  you,  and  until  you  had  crushed 
out  every  spark  of  love  I  ever  had  for  you.  If  I — " 


348  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

"Then  tell  me,"  he  interrupted  her  fiercely,  "if 
you  felt  as  you  say  you  do,  why  did  you  ask  me  to 
go  with  you  to-day  to  Pleasantville  ?" 

"Because,"  she  said,  "I  didn't  ask  the  Porter 
Fielding  that  I  know  to-day  to  go  with  me.  I  asked 
the  Porter  Fielding  I  used  to  know.  I  tried  to  be 
as  bright  and  gay  as  I  could.  I  tried  to  be  like  my 
old  self,  and  to  make  you  feel  toward  me  as  you 
used  to  feel,  and  to  be  your  old  self.  It  was  to  be 
my  last  day,  and  all  that  I  wanted  was  a  few  hours 
of  happiness  with  the  only  man  with  whom  I  had 
ever  known  any  happiness.  That  was  all.  If  I  had 
known  that  it  was  to  make  trouble  between  you,  and 
Blanche  Wilmerding,  and  be  the  end  of  all  your  am- 
bitions for  money  and  everything  else  that  you  have 
wished  for  all  of  your  selfish  life,  then  I  shouldn't 
have  asked  you  that  last  favor.  I'd  have  gone  to 
Pleasantville  alone.  I'm  sorry  for  you.  I'm  sorry 
for  what  I  did,  and  I'm  sorry  for  what  I've  said, 
but  now  I  am  done  with  you." 

Fielding  took  a  step  nearer  her,  and  held  out  his 
arms  unsteadily  toward  her,  but  she  shrank  back 
from  him. 

"Don't  touch  me,"  she  whispered.  "I'm  done 
with  you,  I  tell  you,  I'm  done  with  you." 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  349 

But  Fielding,  maddened  beyond  reason,  took  an- 
other step  nearer  her,  his  hand  closed  tightly  about 
her  arm,  and  his  fingers  sank  into  her  soft  flesh. 

"I  don't  care,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "whether  you  are 
done  with  me  or  not,  but  I  am  going  to  take  you 
away  from  this  damned  place." 

Too  quick  to  stop  her,  Fielding  saw  Fay  sud- 
denly throw  up  her  free  hand  and  beckon  to  some 
one  who  was  passing  the  open  doorway.  Turning, 
he  saw  come  into  the  room  a  young  man,  who  was 
unlike  most  of  the  others  at  the  dance  in  that  he 
seemed  quite  calm  and  his  face  unflushed.  Fielding 
watched  him  quickly  cross  the  room  and  stand  by 
Fay's  side. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  Miss  Clayton?"  the 
young  man  asked. 

"This  is  a  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Stuart,"  Fay  stam- 
mered. "He's  not  himself — he's  been  drinking  and 
he  insists  on  taking  me  home.  I  want  you  to  .send 
him  away." 

Stuart  looked  at  Fielding  and  then,  for  the  first 
time,  saw  the  hand  clasped  with  a  grip  of  steel  about 
Fay's  wrist. 

"Drop  that  hand,"  he  said,  "and  get  out.  This 
is  my  party,  and  Miss  Clayton  is  here  with  me." 


350  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

But  Fielding  did  not  loosen  his  hold  on  Fay's 
arm  and  continued  to  glare  dully  into  Stuart's  eyes. 

"I  don't  give  a  damn  whose  party  it  is,"  he 
shouted,  "but  this  is  no  place  for  a  decent  woman. 
I'm  going  to — " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  suddenly 
Stuart's  arm  shot  out  from  his  thick-set  body  and 
Fielding,  with  a  low  cry  of  pain,  lay  sprawling  on 
the  table. 

It  was  over — quickly  and  quietly  over — and  in 
no  way  disturbed  the  joyous  riot  of  the  neighboring 
ballroom.  A  few  of  the  revelers,  passing  the  door 
a  little  later,  noticed  Fielding's  prostrate  form  lying 
across  the  table,  but  they  hurried  on  their  way,  their 
minds  at  rest  with  the  charitable  thought  that  if  a 
fellow-guest  preferred  sleep  rather  than  the  pleas- 
ures of  the  waltz,  it  was,  after  all,  his  own  affair. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  Fielding  found  himself 
alone.  Stunned,  his  mind  a  blank,  with  uncertain 
steps  he  groped  his  way  out  of  the  room.  A  few 
of  the  passing  guests,  in  a  spirit  of  levity,  brushed 
against  the  tottering  good-looking  youth,  and  sev- 
eral times  he  almost  lost  his  footing  and  fell,  but  at 
last  he  reached  the  coat-room  at  the  end  of  the  hall- 
way. A  waiter,  winking  significantly  to  his  fellow- 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  351 

servants  at  the  young  man's  shifting  blood-shot  eyes 
and  disheveled  condition,  helped  him  on  with  his 
overcoat  and  handed  him  his  hat.  And  then,  with  a 
great  air  of  personal  solicitude,  the  waiter  led  Field- 
ing to  the  door  and  guided  him  down  the  marble 
staircase  to  the  cool  invigorating  air  of  the  open 
street. 

When  Fay  awoke  the  next  day,  it  was  past  noon. 
For  some  time  she  lay  staring  up  at  the  ceiling,  and 
one  by  one,  she  reviewed  the  incidents  of  the  pre- 
vious day — her  visit  to  Pleasantville,  the  row  with 
Porter  at  Stuart's  dance,  and  her  peremptory  dis- 
missal from  the  company.  It  was  the  last  that 
caused  her  the  greatest  concern,  and  she  suddenly 
determined  that  she  must  see  Doris  at  once  and  de- 
cide what  could  best  be  done  in  regard  to  seeking 
future  employment.  The  prospect  for  stage  work 
she  knew  was  very  bad,  as  only  two  or  three  days 
before,  she  had  heard  Doris  say  that  she  had  tried  to 
get  a  position  for  a  girl  friend  and  had  failed  ut- 
terly. She  dressed  quickly  and  went  out  to  the  sit- 
ting-room, but  she  found  the  place  quite  deserted. 
Mr.  Hooker  was  indulging  in  the  unusual  luxury  of 
a  Sunday  promenade,  and  Doris  had  gone  down- 
town and  had  left  a  note  saying  that  she  would  not 


352  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

return  until  after  lunch.  Fay  went  over  to  the  win- 
dow and  with  unappreciative  eyes  stood  looking  out 
on  the  brilliant  sunshine.  Her  mind  was  filled  with 
unhappy  thoughts  of  the  day  just  gone  and  the  im- 
'  mediate  future  surely  held  out  to  her  but  scant  hope. 
Her  mind  and  body  seemed  to  sag  from  too  much 
trouble,  and  she  thoroughly  realized  how  desperate 
was  her  position. 

The  bell  to  the  flat  rang  out  shrilly  through  the 
deserted  rooms,  and  believing  that  Mr.  Hooker 
had  returned  from  his  walk,  she  hurried  to  the  door. 
In  the  dimly  lighted  hallway  she  recognized  the  in- 
significant bowing  figure  and  the  smirking  counte- 
nance of  Max  Lusk.  Even  in  the  semi-darkness  her 
surprise  at  seeing  him  again  was  easily  evident,  but 
she  received  him  as  graciously  as  she  knew  how, 
and  led  him  to  the  sitting-room.  Lusk  declined  to 
remove  his  overcoat,  but  as  he  sank  into  Mr. 
Hooker's  favorite  rocking-chair,  he  threw  the  coat 
wide  open,  so  that  Fay  might  properly  admire  its 
sealskin  lining.  In  his  right  hand  he  held  his  silver- 
mounted  cane  as  if  it  had  been  a  staff,  and  with 
his  left  hand  he  toyed  with  his  shining  silk  hat. 
When  Fay  told  him  that  Doris  and  Mr.  Hooker 


IN   ANOTHER   MOMENT  353 

were  out  he  sighed  regretfully,  but  in  conspicuous 
contrast,  his  beady  eyes  twinkled  with  pleasure. 

"Too  bad,  too  bad,"  he  said,  "I  just  dropped 
in  to  say  good-by.  I'm  sailing  on  Tuesday  for 
Bremen." 

Fay  looked  at  the  puny  little  figure  and  the  putty 
grinning  face  and  thought  what  great  good  fortune 
some  people  had  and  how  curiously  this  world's 
goods  were  distributed.  But  what  she  said  was.* 

"It  sounds  good  to  me,  Mr.  Lusk.  Is  it  a  busi- 
ness or  a  pleasure  trip?" 

Lusk  cocked  his  head  to  one  side  and  indulged  in 
a  mysterious  secretive  smile.  "That  all  depends. 
If  I  go  with  just  the  party  I  hope  to,  I  fear  there 
won't  be  very  much  doing  in  the  way  of  business." 
His  face  suddenly  assumed  a  look  of  genuine  con- 
cern. "I  was  sorry  to  hear  of  your  trouble  with 
Morley,"  he  added;  "he's  a  brute.  If  I'd  known  any- 
thing about  it  I  certainly  shouldn't  have  let  him  give 
you  your  notice,  not  for  a  minute." 

"I  don't  suppose  you  know  of  anything  else?" 
Fay  asked. 

Lusk  rested  his  chin  on  the  head  of  his  cane  and 
gloomily  shook  his  head. 


354  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

"It  was  too  bad  of  you,  Miss  Clayton,  to  ignore 
me,  and  to  refuse  to  see  me,  for  all  of  that  long  time. 
I  knew  of  several  good  things  for  a  bright  pretty 
girl — you  know  what  I  mean — bits  and  small  parts, 
showy  little  things  that  you  could  have  done  splen- 
didly." 

"And  now  they're  all  gone?"  Fay  asked  gloomily. 

"All  gone,"  Lusk  sighed.  "It's  the  very  worst 
time  in  the  year,  I  suppose,  to  get  out  of  a  job  in 
your  business.  All  the  fall  shows  well  set  and  noth- 
ing doing  now  until  the  spring.  If  I  were  to  be  here 
it  might  be  different.  Perhaps  I  could  get  you 
something,  but  I  sail  on  the  Kaiser  Wilhelm  der 
Grosse  on  Tuesday." 

"You'll  be  gone  long?"  Fay  asked. 

The  mask  of  gloom  gradually  faded  from  the 
little  broker's  face.  There  was  a  smile  in  his  eyes 
and  on  his  lips.  He  got  up,  and  laying  aside  his  hat 
and  cane,  stood  before  the  stove,  and  spread  out  his 
jeweled  hands  behind  him. 

"Oh,  no,  not  for  long,"  he  said,  "two  or  three 
months,  perhaps.  Just  enough  to  escape  the  worst 
-of  the  cold  weather  over  here  and  get  back  in  time 
to  see  the  new  spring  shows  open.  I  have  a  big  in- 
terest in  a  couple  of  them." 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  355 

He  let  his  beady  shifting  eyes  rest  for  a  moment 
on  Fay,  long  enough  to  be  quite  sure  that  she  thor- 
oughly understood  the  true  significance  of  all  he 
said. 

"If  I  go  alone,"  he  went  on,  "I  shall  stay  for  a 
few  weeks  in  Germany  and  visit  some  of  my  people 
and  do  a  little  business.  But  if  I  don't  go  alone — 
bah  to  Germany!  A  couple  of  days  will  be  enough 
for  Baden,  and  then  scurry  away  to  Paris — dear  old 
Paris!  the  city  where  every  man  and  every  woman 
are  happy.  A  week  will  be  enough  for  the  lady  to 
buy  plenty  of  pretty  clothes  and  hats,  and  enough, 
perhaps,  too,  for  a  visit  to  the  jewelry  shops  along 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  And  then  we're  off  for  the 
Riviera  in  a  comfortable  car  with  a  good  French 
chauffeur — Nice  and  Monte  Carlo! — a  sight  of  the 
great  people  of  all  the  world  taking  their  ease,  and 
just  at  the  top  of  the  season,  eh!  That  would  be 
some  trip  for  a  girl  with  the  man  who  would  give 
her  everything  she  wanted,  some  trip !  Orange  sun- 
shine, and  the  best  French  cooking,  and  the  blue 
Mediterranean,  and  a  man  who  would  back  you  to 
the  limit  at  Monte  Carlo !  Better  than  a  stuffy  little 
flat  in  Harlem,  and  starvation,  eh,  what?" 

A  few  months  before,  when  he  had  chosen  to  in- 


356  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

suit  Fay  Clayton,  her  answer  had  been  a  blow  in  the 
face,  but  now  it  seemed  that  Lusk  had  no  fear  of 
personal  violence  whatever,  and  smiling  and  bowing, 
he  moved  a  few  steps  nearer  to  her. 

"That  would  be  a  fine  trip,  eh,  Miss  Clayton,"  he 
said,  leering  into  her  pale  face — "a  great  chance  for 
a  girl  to  see  the  world?  What  do  you  say,  Fay?" 

"When  did  you  say  you  sailed?"  she  asked. 

Lusk  drew  a  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket  and 
tossed  it  on  the  center  table. 

"Something  for  a  little  necessary  shopping  for 
the  voyage,"  he  said.  "We  shall  sail  on  Tuesday- 
Tuesday  at  noon.  You  might  ring  me  up  in  the 
morning,  at  my  office." 

Fay  bowed  her  head  in  assent,  and  Lusk,  assum- 
ing a  smiling  and  jaunty  air,  moved  toward  the 
door. 

"I  shall  call  you  up  to-morrow  morning  at  the 
office,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  there  will  be  many 
little  things  that  I  shall  have  to  ask  you." 

"To-morrow  morning,"  he  repeated,  and  placing 
his  silk  hat  over  his  heart,  he  made  her  a  low  bow 
of  mock  servility.  And  thus,  at  last  as  the  con- 
queror, he  took  his  leave. 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  357 

The  first  definite  conclusion  that  Fay  reached  was 
that  she  would  tell  Doris  and  old  man  Hooker  that 
she  was  leaving  on  Tuesday  morning  to  visit  some 
old  friends  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pleasantville. 
The  truth  would  only  hurt  them  and  must  inevitably 
result  in  endless  arguments  that  in  no  way  could 
affect  her  ultimate  decision.  The  decision  made,  she 
at  once  began  the  preparations  for  her  departure. 
Her  mind  a  blank,  her  soul  numb,  her  conscience  a 
thing  warped  and  thrown  to  the  winds,  she  proceed- 
ed with  deliberation  to  her  own  undoing.  Fay  Clay- 
ton had  turned  to  the  oldest  and  the  most  pitiful  ex- 
cuse of  weak  men  and  emotional  women — fate.  For 
the  moment  she  was  willing  to  believe  that  inexora- 
ble fate  in  the  person  of  one  Max  Lusk  had  laid  its 
heavy  hand  upon  her,  and  fate  could  not  be  denied. 
But,  at  least,  fate  had  come  supplied  with  plenty  of 
money — enough  for  her  own  immediate  needs,  and 
a  substantial  balance  to  leave  to  her  fellow-lodgers. 

When  Doris  returned  to  the  apartment  late  that 
afternoon  Fay  told  her  at  once  of  her  dismissal 
from  the  company  and  of  her  proposed  visit  to  her 
friends  in  the  country.  Confused  as  her  mind  was, 
it  assumed  a  certain  degree  of  craftiness.  With  a 


358  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

fine  regard  to  the  details  of  her  plans  she  lied  to 
Doris,  and  her  story  was  believed. 

The  next  morning  she  went  down-town  and  made 
the  purchases  which,  earlier  in  the  day,  Lusk  had 
assured  her  were  essential  to  the  ocean  voyage,  but 
not  for  a  moment  was  the  girl  more  than  half-con- 
scious of  what  she  was  doing.  Over  and  over  again, 
she  saw  in  quick  succession  Lusk's  gray  putty  face 
bowing  himself  out  of  the  door,  Fielding  as  he  fell 
unconscious  across  the  table  at  Stuart's  party,  and 
Stuart  himself,  with  his  virile  thick-set  frame,  bull- 
dog jaw,  and  sympathetic  appealing  eyes. 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  she  had  finished  her  pur- 
chases, and  with  her  arms  filled  with  bundles,  was 
hurrying  on  her  way  to  the  subway  station  at  Times 
Square.  Just  as  she  passed  the  Knickerbocker, 
Stuart  came  out  of  the  hotel  and  met  her  face  to 
face.  It  was  impossible  to  avoid  him,  and  so  she 
stopped,  her  head  lowered,  and  her  cheeks  on  fire. 

"Such  a  day's  shopping,"  he  laughed,  "y°u  must 
have  come  into  a  legacy." 

Fay  glanced  at  him  and  then  down  at  the  parcels. 
Somehow,  it  seemed  impossible  to  lie  to  this  man, 
and,  after  all,  what  difference  could  it  make  now? 

"No,  not  a  legacy,"  she  said.    "I'm  going  abroad 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  359 

to-morrow.  I'm  going  abroad  to  Bremen,  and 
Paris,  and  Monte  Carlo.  Congratulate  me." 

Stuart  was  holding  a  cigarette  between  his  fingers, 
but  at  her  words  he  let  it  fall  to  the  pavement,  and 
then  carefully  stamped  out  the  fire  with  his  heel. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  asked,  "that  you  are  mar- 
ried?" 

Fay  looked  at  him  with  scared  confused  eyes,  and 
shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  married.  Just  a  trip 
abroad — Bremen,  and  Paris,  and  Monte  Carlo." 

Stuart  tapped  the  pavement  slowly  with  his  stick, 
glanced  at  Fay,  and  then  back  at  the  hotel,  and  then 
at  the  high  bill-boards  over  the  shops  across  the 
street. 

"You're  sailing  to-morrow?"  he  said,  with  his  un- 
seeing eyes  now  fixed  on  the  packages  under  her 
arm.  "To-morrow,"  he  repeated,  "it  seems  so  soon." 

From  a  world  of  worldly  knowledge  his  mind  was 
groping  about  for  a  word,  an  argument,  a  story  that 
would  put  to  rout  this  tragedy.  People  were  pass- 
ing them,  jostling  them,  as  they  stood  facing  each 
other  on  the  crowded  thoroughfare.  Somehow  he 
resented  the  sun  shining  from  a  clear  blue  sky,  and 
the  noise  of  the  traffic  and  the  rumble  of  the  cars 


360  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

fairly  bellowed  in  his  ears.  Surely  in  the  archives 
of  his  full  happy  life  there  was  something,  some 
moral,  some  word  of  hope,  that  he  could  offer  the 
distraught  mind  of  this  girl,  standing  impotently 
before  him,  that  would  make  her  see  things  as  they 
really  were.  Was  there  no  experience  in  his  whole 
life  that  fitted  him  to  hold  a  brief  for  virtue  and 
clean  living?  He  saw  a  woman,  who,  in  his  heart, 
he  cared  for  tremendously,  a  soul,  as  yet  pure,  clad 
in  blue  serge,  and  white  gloves  and  patent  leather 
shoes,  bound  straight  for  hell — hell  surely  in  this 
world  and  whatever  hell  the  next  world  provides — 
and  yet  he  found  his  tongue  was  dry  and  powerless. 
Weakly  he  put  out  his  hand,  but  his  voice  was  un- 
naturally high  and  resonant. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  "and  good  luck  to  you.  But, 
good  God,  will  nothing  stop  you?  You're  the  one 
thing  in  this  rotten  town  that  I'd  have  gambled  on. 
I'd  have  staked  my  life  on  you.  Let  me  come  and 
see  you  this  afternoon,  to-night,  any  time — let  me 
talk  to  you,  before  you  go,  won't  you?" 

With  frightened  unseeing  eyes,  Fay  tried  to  look 
into  his.  She  slowly  gathered  her  bundles  under 
one  arm  and  put  out  her  hand  to  take  the  one  held 
out  to  her,  but,  somehow,  their  outstretched  hands 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  361 

never  met,  and  the  crowds  of  the  street  came  be- 
tween them  and  carried  them  apart. 

All  the  arrangements  for  her  departure  Fay  had 
learned  by  telephone  from  Lusk,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing found  her  lying  on  the  lounge  in  her  stateroom, 
a  dry-eyed,  miserably  unhappy,  nervous  wreck  of 
her  former  self.  It  was  not  until  the  big  boat  was 
well  on  its  way  down  the  bay  that  she  found  the 
physical  strength  and  the  courage  to  venture  on 
deck.  To  her  great  relief  there  was  no  one  near,  and 
so  she  leaned  on  the  rail  and  watched  the  high  build- 
ings of  New  York  slowly  disappear  through  the 
gray  mists  of  the  winter  morning.  Whatever  evil 
the  future  might  bring  her,  thank  God,  that  was 
over!  The  great  towers — the  emblem  of  huge  in- 
dustries— the  blaring  show  of  wealth  and  prosperity, 
that  blotted  out  the  weak  and  poor  under  the  shadow 
of  its  ostentatious  splendor,  were  fading  before  her 
tired  weary  eyes.  At  least  she  had  made  good  her 
escape  before  the  big  cruel  city  had  completely 
crushed  her  poor  pretty  body  into  oblivion. 

"Good  morning,"  she  heard  a  cool  pleasant  voice 
saying  to  her,  and  looking  over  her  shoulder,  she  saw 
Jimmy  Stuart  standing  at  her  side. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  demanded.    Her 


362  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

voice  was  steady  enough,  but  she  was  conscious  that 
her  body  was  trembling  from  her  head  to  her  feet. 

Stuart  folded  his  arms  over  the  rail,  and  disre- 
garding her  angry  eyes,  stared  calmly  and  smilingly 
into  the  white-capped  waters  of  the  bay. 

"Meaning  me?"  he  chuckled.  "What  am  I  doing 
here?  I'm  by  way  of  being  a  rescuing  party.  Like 
all  rescuing  parties,  I  suppose  I  lack  the  initiative  of 
discovery,  but,  also,  like  all  rescuing  parties,  I'm 
hoping  to  come  in  for  most  of  the  glory." 

"How  did  you  know,"  she  asked,  "that  I  was  sail- 
ing on  this  boat  ?" 

"That's  easy,"  he  laughed,  "there  was  only  one 
boat  sailing  to-day." 

"Do  you  know,"  she  asked,  "why  I  am  here?  Do 
you  know  with  whom  I  am  making  this  trip?  It 
almost  seems  as  if  you  might  have  spared  me  this 
last  humiliation." 

Stuart  gathered  his  arms  closer  about  his  body 
and  stared  with  renewed  interest  at  the  passing 
waters. 

"I  can  make  a  pretty  good  guess  who  you  are 
with,"  he  said.  "I  saw  that  bounder,  Lusk,  just 
now,  trying  to  engage  two  places  at  the  captain's 
table.  I  hate  to  be  brusk,  Miss  Clayton,  but  the  situ- 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  363 

ation  seems  to  demand  it.  Do  you  mind  telling  me 
how  much  you  owe  him?" 

"I  certainly  do,"  Fay  threw  back  at  him.  "What 
right  have  you  to  ask  a  question  like  that  ?" 

"Because,"  Stuart  answered,  "I've  got  to  pay  him 
back  the  money,  and  as  it's  not  a  very  pleasant  thing 
to  do,  I'd  rather  get  it  over,  and  have  it  off  my 
mind." 

Fay  looked  steadily  at  Stuart  and  settled  herself 
more  comfortably  against  the  rail. 

"Do  you  think,  Mr.  Stuart,"  she  asked,  "that 
your  money  is  any  better  than  Mr.  Lusk's  ?" 

"Bless  your  soul,  yes,"  he  laughed.  "Don't  you 
know  your  New  York  any  better  than  that  ?  Lusk's 
money  is  all  tainted.  Yes,  it  is — perfectly  good,  but 
yet  tainted  money.  How  much  did  you  say  it  was  ?" 

Fay  turned  from  him  and  for  a  long  time  looked 
at  the  ghostlike  shores,  fast  vanishing  behind  the 
banks  of  mist  that  rolled  in  from  the  sea.  Once 
more  it  seemed  as  if  inexorable  fate  had  interfered 
in  her  affairs  and  again  would  brook  no  denial.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  she  loved  Jimmy  Stuart  for  his  un- 
warranted intervention,  and  would  have  liked  to 
throw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  cry  away  her 
sorrows  on  his  broad  shoulders,  but,  instead,  she 


364  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

only  turned  back  to  him  and  said :  "Mr.  Lusk  gave 
me  three  hundred  dollars,  and  he  paid  for  my  pas- 
sage on  the  boat." 

"That's  fine,"  Stuart  cried.  "I  always  knew  he 
was  a  piker.  You  wait  here  for  me,  won't  you  ?" 

Before  Fay  could  answer  him  he  had  gone,  and 
with  blurred  eyes  she  watched  him  hurrying  down 
the  deck,  whistling  as  he  went. 

In  ten  minutes  he  was  back  again. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  laughed,  "and  do  you  know 
he  had  the  nerve  to  ask  me  the  same  question  you 
did — why  my  money  was  any  better  than  his." 

"You  mean,"  she  asked,  "that  you  paid  him — 
everything  ?" 

"You  bet  I  paid  him  everything,"  he  said,  "and  I 
also  volunteered  the  information  that  if  he  ever 
dared  to  speak  to  you  or  even  look  at  you  again  on 
the  voyage  I'd  break  his  head  for  him.  I  think  he 
thought  I  was  going  to  do  it,  anyhow,  because  as 
soon  as  I  gave  him  the  money,  he  ran  down  the  gang- 
way like  a  scared  rabbit." 

Fay  stuck  her  hands  deep  into  the  pockets  of  her 
ulster,  and  looked  steadily  into  the  young  man's 
eyes. 

"Mr.  Stuart,"  she  said,  "you're  the  most  curious 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  365 

man  I  ever  knew.  You  are  just  like  Jimmy  Stuart 
and  nobody  else.  I  don't  understand  you  at  all." 

Stuart  leaned  his  back  against  the  rail  and  shook 
his  head,  and  smiled  at  her. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I'm  really  not  curious — I'm  ab- 
normally normal — that's  all.  I  don't  have  to  be 
curious.  I  was  just  born  understanding.  For  in- 
stance, I  have  always  understood  you.  When  I  first 
knew  you  I  was  quite  sure  that  intrinsically  you 
were  in  many  ways  the  finest  woman  I  had  ever 
met;  and  by  all  odds  the  most  amusing — that  is, 
when  you  had  your  health  and  your  spirits  with  you 
— but  I  also  knew  that  you  were  terribly  sensitive, 
and  emotional,  and  fearfully  and  wonderfully  mis- 
understood. A  great  asset,  if  handled  properly, 
but,  good  lord!  how  you  did  mismanage  the  prop- 
erty. Whew !  You  know  I  have  to  shudder  when  I 
think  of  how  near  you  came  to  making  a  mess  of  it. 
You'd  better  go  to  your  stateroom  now  and  doll 
yourself  up  for  lunch.  Suppose  you  meet  me  here 
in  half  an  hour.  I've  engaged  two  splendid  places  at 
the  most  inconspicuous  end  of  the  doctor's  table." 

For  six  days  Stuart  seldom  left  her  side,  and 
with  fairly  good  weather,  one  can  learn  much,  and 
forget  much,  during  six  days  at  sea.  They  walked 


366  IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT 

the  deck  together  for  miles,  morning,  noon  and 
night,  and  sat  for  hours  in  their  steamer  chairs,  side 
by  side,  and  read  amusing  stories  and  thrilling  detec- 
tive tales  to  each  other.  They  played  shuffle-board 
by  themselves,  and  they  laughed  and  talked  together 
of  the  present,  but  never  of  the  past  or  of  the  future. 
And,  gradually,  Stuart  saw  the  color  come  back  to 
Fay's  cheeks  and  the  old  light  into  her  eyes.  It  was 
on  the  night  of  the  sixth  day  out,  and  they  were  sit- 
ting together,  as  they  always  sat  together  for  a  while 
on  deck  after  dinner,  that  he  decided  that  it  was  not 
only  wise  but  necessary  to  speak  of  the  future. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  "we  shall  reach  Bremen-^* 
good  old  Bremen !" 

"Have  you  ever  been  to  Bremen  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  admitted  cheerfully,  "but  I  love  it  as 
the  first  stopping  place  of  the  return  of  the  rescuing 
party,  and  the  first  ground  we've  put  our  feet  on 
since  we  started  on  our  little  journey  of  content- 
ment." 

"Then  you're  glad  to  have  been  a  rescuing  party," 
she  asked,  "and  you've  been  content?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  more,  oh!  a  great  deal 
more." 

For  a  few  moments  they  sat  in  silence,  listening  to 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  367 

the  steady  beat  of  the  engines  and  looking  out  on 
the  black  rolling  waters  and  the  purple  starlit  sky. 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  owe  you 
such  an  awful  lot." 

"It  has  been  fun,"  he  admitted,  "wonderful  fun. 
It's  a  pity  about  Bremen  to-morrow,  but  I  suppose 
there's  a  lot  of  foolish  passengers  on  board  who 
want  to  get  to  work,  or  to  see  their  families,  or 
something.  And  there's  the  mails — it's  funny  how 
many  people  like  to  get  letters.  It  really  seems  as  if 
the  work  of  the  rescuing  party  was  over — at  least, 
in  a  way,  it's  over." 

"Well,  after  all,"  she  said,  "it  was  a  great  success 
as  a  rescuing  party,  for  you  found  the  one  who  was 
lost,  and  brought  her  safely  into  port.  But  I'm 
afraid  your  troubles  aren't  quite  over  yet.  There's 
the  further  debt  for  the  expenses  of  a  few  days  at 
the  hotel  at  Bremen,  and  then  my  passage  back  to 
Broadway — Broadway  and  the  managers'  offices.  I 
fear  there's  a  good  deal  more  than  glory  to  a  rescu- 
ing party.  It  doesn't  seem  to  be  a  very  cheap  short- 
cut to  fr.me." 

"Broadway,"  Stuart  repeated  dreamily,  "the 
Great  White  Way.  I  know  a  place — in  fact  I  own 
it.  It's  a  farm  left  me  by  my  revered  ancestors  on 


368  IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT 

the  eastern  shore  of  the  good  old  state  of  Maryland. 
It's  a  regular  farm,  with  a  whitewashed  fence,  and 
a  truck  garden,  and  two  automobiles,  and  lots  of 
cows,  and  chickens,  and  pigs,  and  neighbors  who  live 
in  knickerbockers  and  have  polo  ponies  to  sell,  and 
marvelous  appetites  for  mint  juleps.  The  old  house 
itself  is  conspicuous  for  six  beautiful  fat  round  pil- 
lars that  hold  up  the  roof  of  the  porch,  and  a  few  of 
the  original  clapboards  left  me  by  my  ancestors. 
There  is  also  a  wonderful  path  leading  to  the  house, 
lined  with  box — all  of  which  makes  the  outside  look 
most  ancient  and  respectable  and  beautiful.  But 
inside  there  are  many  tiled  bath-tubs,  which  my 
ancestors  would  probably  have  hated,  and  many 
deep  leather  chairs,  which  they  would  have  loved. 
In  a  word,  it's  the  sort  of  place  that  appeals  to  a  man 
like  myself,  who  wants  to  play  at  farming  and  live 
his  life  in  peace  and  content.  An  added  attraction 
that  I  forgot  to  mention  is  a  bubbling  stream  that 
runs  right  through  the  dairy,  but  the  most  wonderful 
thing  about  the  farm  is  the  circle  of  hills  that  sur- 
rounds it.  The  hills  are  all  covered  with  birch  and 
pine,  and  these  trees  shoot  up  so  high  that  with  the 
exception  of  the  sun  and  moon  and  the  stars,  they 
shut  out  the  light  from  every  part  of  the  world.  The 


IN    ANOTHER   MOMENT  369 

highest  electric  globe  on  the  highest  sign  on  Broad- 
way could  never  be  seen  from  my  farm." 

"What  do  you  call  your  farm,"  she  asked,  "Para- 
dise?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "it's  called  'Rest  Farm'.  Fay,  it 
occurred  to  me  that  if  you  didn't  like  the  hotel  at 
Bremen,  we  might  hurry  on  to  Paris  to  join  my 
mother  and  sister.  They're  stopping  there  for  the 
winter.  We  could  be  married  at  once." 

Fay  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  head  and  stared 
hard  at  the  silver  stars,  shining  with  a  wonderful 
crystal  whiteness  from  the  vast  stretch  of  purple  sky. 

"Jimmy,"  she  said,  "you  know  that  I  have  been 
starved  and  bruised  in  body,  and  soul,  and  mind; 
and  when  there  seems  to  be  nothing  left  for  me  at 
all  you  come  to  me  and  offer  me  all  this — your  home 
and  peace  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  Do  you  think 
you  are  being  quite  fair  to  yourself?  You  haven't 
known  me  so  very  long  or  so  very  well.  How  do 
you  know  I  care  enough  for  you,  and  not  for  just  the 
home  and  the  chance  to  start  again?" 

"If  you  don't  care  enough  now,"  he  said,  "all  I 
ask  is  the  chance  to  make  you  care.  Fay,  dear, 
won't  you  give  me  the  chance  ?  I  would  try  so  hard 
to  make  you  care,  always." 


370  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

"If  I  only  could,"  she  whispered,  "if  I  only  could. 
I  could  have,  once — only  six  months  ago — but,  Jim- 
my, I  can't  any  more.  There's  this  trip  back  of  me 
now,  and  a  lot  of  foolish  things  I  did  when  I  was 
crazy  and  didn't  care — all  those  parties,  and  the  peo- 
ple I  ran  with.  You  know  the  old  saying  about  the 
'name  and  the  game'.  The  time  has  come  when  I've 
got  to  pay  the  cost." 

"The  cost  of  what?"  he  asked.  "You've  been 
through  the  fire  and  you've  come  out  unscathed." 

"Not  quite,"  she  said.  "I  tell  you  I've  got  to  pay 
the  cost — the  cost  of  unsought  knowledge,  the  kind 
of  knowledge  that  is  thrust  on  every  unprotected 
girl  in  a  big  city  like  New  York." 

Stuart  stared  at  the  rail  moving  slowly  up  and 
down  against  the  black  water. 

"Of  all  the  women  I  know,"  he  said,  "I  would 
rather  lead  you  by  the  hand  to  my  mother,  and  say 
to  her :  'Mother,  I  have  brought  you  a  daughter.  In 
her  I  have  found  an  end  to  all  of  my  troubles.  The 
feverish  useless  life  I  have  led  is  over.' ' 

With  a  little  sigh  of  content  Fay  let  her  head  sink 
against  the  back  of  the  chair.  Through  her  closed 
eyelids  she  saw  a  great  white  light,  and  years  of 
peace  and  calm  content  stretching  before  her. 


IN    ANOTHER    MOMENT  371 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  closed  it  tightly  over 
Stuart's.  When  she  spoke  her  voice  scarcely  rose 
above  the  whir  of  the  big  ship  as  it  cut  through  the 
huge  waves,  annihilating  space,  and  rushing  her  on 
her  way  to  the  goal  of  happiness. 

"All  right,  Jimmy,"  she  said,  "if  you  can  say  that 
to  your  mother,  and  be  sure  you  mean  it,  I'll  go  with 
you  to  Paris." 

He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it,  and 
then  leaned  so  close  to  her  that  they  could  see 
clearly  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"I  mean  it  so  much,"  he  said,  "that  I  would  like  to 
make  you  a  promise — a  promise  to  do  anything  that 
you  want  me  to  do — I  mean  now  or  at  any  time 
hereafter." 

Fay  continued  to  look  into  his  eyes,  which  for 
once  had  turned  serious,  and  laughed  gaily,  just  as 
she  used  to  laugh  when  she  was  a  girl  at  Pleasant- 
ville. 

"No,  Jimmy,"  she  said,  "you've  promised  me 
enough  for  to-night."  And  then,  with  a  sudden 
misgiving,  he  saw  her  wrinkle  her  forehead  and 
draw  her  eyebrows  close  together. 

"What  is  it,  dear  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  thinking,"  she  said,   "that  there  is  one 


372  IN   ANOTHER    MOMENT 

thing  that  you  could  do  for  me,  and  I'd  like  to  have 
you  do  it  right  away.  Send  a  wireless  to  Doris,  and 
say  that  I  am  with  you,  and  that  we  are  on  our  way 
to  visit  your  mother  and  your  sister  at  Paris,  and 
that  we  are  going  to  be  married." 

"Sure  I  will,"  he  cried,  and  jumped  to  his  feet. 
"Isn't  there  some  one  else  I  can  send  a  message  to 
for  you?" 

Fay  sat  up  straight  in  her  chair  and  stretched  out 
her  hand  toward  him  and  let  it  lay  close  in  his. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said.  "You  won't  be  long 
gone,  will  you  ?  And  don't  forget  to  say  that  we  are 
going  to  be  married." 

She  took  away  her  hand,  and  with  a  little  sigh  of 
content,  once  more  dropped  back  into  her  chair. 

"That's  a  wonderful  word,  Jimmy,"  she  mur- 
mured. "Did  you  ever  stop  to  think  how  wonderful 
it  is,  and  all  that  it  can  mean — that  word,  married? 
I  don't  believe  I  have  ever  thought  much  about  it 
myself  before;  but  now  I  know  that  it  is  the  most 
beautiful  word  in  the  whole  wide  world." 


THE  END 


vl' 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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